


A Bit of Thyme

by ChillingBluebells



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Tension, Brienne is stubborn, Bronn Being Bronn, Chefs, Cooking, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Food, Grief/Mourning, Jaime and Brienne are fools, Jaime is a dork, Modern AU, Ouch, Past Character Death, Sadness, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Swearing, Tension, Therapy, Tommen's Cats, everyone sees it but them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillingBluebells/pseuds/ChillingBluebells
Summary: In the kitchen, Brienne Tarth is in complete control. Outside of it, she doesn't know what to do. What happens when Jaime Lannister steps into both of her worlds?Basically, Braime + Food. What can go wrong?(A Brienne/Jaime AU inspired by Mostly Martha and No Reservations. This is a partial adaptation.)NOTE: Mature/Explicit rating on certain chapters due to increased use of explicit language (because of Bronn).





	1. Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is from the show or the books by George R. r. Martin. I do not own it.
> 
> 1) The characters resemble the TV show more than the novels. (I have not read the novels yet.) So the character ages are more in-line with the show. Thus, Brienne is closer in age to Jaime.  
> 2) I am posting as I go. I don't have full chapters ready to be unleashed. Do not expect long chapters. I've always had a short attention span and like to break things up.  
> 3) The story leans more towards Brienne's POV, but there are some Jaime POV chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Brienne and her friend.

_‘Serve them roasted with onions, shallots, and truffles in a thyme sauce. A side of—‘_

“What are you thinking about?”

Her musings were interrupted by the soothing voice of the woman sitting at the desk next to her.

“Duck,” she responded, matter-of-factually. At the woman’s stare, she elaborated. “I like roasting them. It gives them a more robust flavour.”

She returned to her mental cookbook and scribbled more recipe concepts in her mind. _‘Hmm...wild mushrooms and truffle ravioli? No. Red wine, rosemary, shallots, or...roasted cod with truffle mashed potatoes, wild garlic relish, zucchini, and—‘_

“Brienne, why do you come here every week?” the same calm voice penetrated her thoughts once again.

Brienne Tarth did not respond, preferring to roll her eyes to convey her annoyance.

This was how she was spending her morning off, being interrogated. Here she was standing in a sleek, contemporary loft in King's Landing, gazing out the window overlooking the city, while her close friend, Margaery Tyrell, questioned her with questions she knew her friend already had the answers to. It was times like this when she could not decide whether it was fortunate or unfortunate to have a psychiatrist for a friend.

Brienne had met Margaery through one of the frequent patrons of the restaurant, Olenna Tyrell, Margaery's grandmother. At the age of seventy-three, the matriarchal Tyrell was still quick as a whip, and frequently terrified and embarrassed Brienne's sous-chef when she came around to the kitchen. The first time Brienne met Olenna, she had expected snide remarks for graduating as valedictorian in culinary school over her grandson, and for her physical appearance. Instead, she was praised for not only her food and being marvelously tall for a woman, but for knocking Loras down a peg. He had been entitled, and everyone knew he lacked the skill, work ethic, and talent. Olenna had then declared that Brienne would be a positive influence on her granddaughter, instead of the "simpletons" (in her words, not Brienne's) that her granddaughter was surrounded by.

The very next day, on her day off, Brienne had woken up to Olenna Tyrell at her door with Margaery in tow. How the old lady knew where she lived, she had absolutely no idea. Brienne had stammered and flushed heavily, utterly unprepared with her sun and moon pajamas and her short, straw-like hair in absolute disarray. Pure embarrassment shown on her face, especially when she saw how the two women were dressed to the nines. The older woman had shoved Margaery through the door, and announced as she walked back to the awaited car, that she would be back later so the girls could have a chat and become friends. Margaery, who was abashed but calm, stated she would leave, and apologized for the intrusion and her grandmother's antics. Brienne, who was still as red as a tomato, waved off her apology, and asked if she was hungry. Brienne had served up a brunch, and they spent the rest of the morning and most of afternoon sharing tales of protective parents and grandparents, and laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. They had become fast friends. Margaery helped Brienne with her confidence and wardrobe, and Brienne in turn saved Margaery occasionally from starvation. Being close friends was the icing on top of the cake to Olenna's utter delight.

“Humour me. It will help with the process.”

She huffed, “My boss told me she would fire me if I didn’t go to therapy.”

“And why do you think your boss believes that you need therapy?” Margaery prodded.

“I don’t know.”

“Brienne—“

“I have no idea. Couldn’t you just write me a note saying I have zero problems?” she argued.

“You know it doesn’t work that way. You need to confront your issues, which I know you have,” Margaery countered.

Brienne shot her a look of annoyance. “Well, if you know what my issues are, then give me solutions, so we can stop doing this.”

She could have been spending her time trying out different flavour combinations in her kitchen, or prepping for tomorrow’s dinner service. It was not as though she hated spending time with Margaery, quite the opposite in fact. Margaery knew how to have a good time, and they had a lot in common, but Margaery the psychiatrist was another story. Her never-ending circle of questions that stamped “why?” to her previous inquiries frustrated Brienne greatly because they were redundant and in her opinion, useless.

“Brienne, you need to admit your problem first before we can find a solution. You know this. We’ve been at this for a month now,” Margaery chided gently.

“I don’t have a problem,” Brienne growled back before glancing at her watch, and picking up her coat and purse. “You know what? I have to go. I need to make sure my sous-chef prepped tonight’s dinner right.”

The psychiatrist sighed. “Fine, go, but we’re meeting again—” Brienne flew out the door. “—same time next week!” she called out, just as the door slammed shut.

Margaery closed her notebook, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “And that’s why your boss thinks you need therapy, Brienne,” she mumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come.
> 
> Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticisms are always appreciated. :)


	2. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We enter Brienne's professional kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of cooking is from watching the two films this is based on, Bon Appétit and SortedFood on Youtube, and the occasional Top Chef. So I may be wrong about a lot of things. Please bear with me. :)

The double-swinging doors of the _Winterfell_ kitchen were getting a workout today. The servers picked up the steaming plates of mouth-watering food to bring to the customers, after the head chef approved them. Busboys were running in and out with trays of tableware and linens under their arms. An accident had already occurred earlier during the dinner service causing the remaking of two dishes, and an unhappy Sansa Stark who had to change her pristine designer shirt. To say Brienne was displeased was an understatement.

“Where’s the rib-eye for table five?” she called out in the midst of a cacophony of the sizzling grills, the rhythmic tapping of utensils, and the clanging of plates.

“Two out, chef!” Hot Pie, one of her line cooks, shouted back.

She plucked a ticket from the rail. “Table twelve: three parfaits, one crab salad, two scallops, one lamb. Six minutes.”

She grabbed the peach purée prepared by one of her cooks before turning to her sous-chef. “How’s the duck, Pod?”

“Perfect, chef,” the boy replied, a hint of childish amusement present in his tone.

Brienne Tarth could not fathom how her sous-chef could remain so pleasantly content in the midst of all the kitchen chaos, even after years of working at the same restaurant. The number of times where she, herself, wanted to pull her hair out or stab someone with a knife was endless. Then again, Podrick always found delight in the oddest things, and even more so now with his side job as a personal chef for Tyrion Lannister. His pregnant fiancée was due in a few weeks, and he wanted the extra money to support them. How time had flown by.

From the moment she was introduced to Podrick Payne six years ago, she knew the boy was something special; though she would not admit that aloud to anyone, of course. At the time, she had been hesitant in taking on this young man. Mr. Payne was fresh out of culinary school with barely any restaurant experience, but had graduated with the highest honours. Ultimately, Brienne had thrown caution to the wind and hired Podrick under the memory of her own mentor taking a chance on her. Her uncertainty completely vanished within the first two weeks, as Podrick demonstrated he was not only immensely hard-working and passionate about food, but incredibly talented.

The boy had begun as a prep cook, under the direction of Brienne’s former sous-chef. He was clumsy and easily intimidated, especially when Olenna Tyrell dropped by the restaurant. Nonetheless, he displayed a willingness to learn—frequently asking questions about everything, and helping out wherever he could. He became quick and efficient, and showed great attention to detail. His chopping was precise and the broths he prepared somehow tasted better than all the previous prep cooks. More often than not, Brienne would find him in the backroom during his breaks, planning out recipes in his notebook. In just half the usually six to eight months, Podrick had earned the respect of his executive chef and was upgraded to a line cook. When her sous-chef moved to Essos two years later, Brienne promptly promoted Podrick to become her sous-chef, a title the young man still thanked her for to this day.

“The dude at table twenty wants to know what this is.” Arya, one of the waitresses, walked into the kitchen and held up a sprig of herb to Brienne.

Arya Stark strived to be a chef, following the footsteps of her parents and older brothers. _'Sharp knives and surrounded by food, what's not to like?'_ She had said to Brienne once. Originally, at a much younger age, she had aspirations of becoming a pirate because of the swords and adventures. As she grew up, she quickly learned that her dream was highly unrealistic and becoming a chef seemed more plausible. However, it was not until she met Brienne that she took her dream more seriously. Brienne treated her like a mentor would a pupil. When Brienne had a moment, she would teach Arya culinary skills and tested her knowledge, which the girl appreciated.

Brienne briefly glanced at the little sprig, before focusing back down at the plate she was placing the final touches on. “You should know what it is.”

“Lemon thyme?” Arya asked with a hint of hesitation.

“And how do you know?” the head chef questioned, lightly drizzling a vinaigrette onto a salad.

“It smells citrus-y when I crushed the leaves a bit,” the girl replied more confidently.

“Good. You have your answer. Now take this to table fourteen.” Brienne said, nudging a peach and fennel salad to a beaming Arya.

“Table seven wants to thank you for their dinner,” Catelyn Stark, the owner of _Winterfell_ , walked into the kitchen to notify Brienne. The older woman almost crashed into her daughter, as the girl flew out of the kitchen with the salad. “Slow down, Arya!” she gently scolded.

“Not today mom! Not today!” the girl tossed over her shoulder. Catelyn shook her head with a laughing sigh, before turning back to her executive chef. “Brienne, it’s the Boltons.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, carefully placing the finishing touches on the chocolate mousse in front of her; a dollop of cream, followed by a sprig of mint.

“I’m busy.”

“I know you don’t like Roose Bolton and his wife much, but they are our regulars. So please just put on a smile and let them shower you with compliments,” Catelyn stated.

Brienne glared at her and gently pushed the desserts to the waiters before turning to her sous-chef. “Pod!”

“Yes, chef. On it, chef!” the young man responded back, and begun shouting out orders to the rest of the kitchen, having seemingly read her mind.

Brienne took off her apron. She hated leaving the kitchen to have customers throw compliments at her about one of her dishes. _'If they liked the food so much, paying the bill and returning to Winterfell on future occasions was enough. Why waste my time?'_ she thought.

As she was about to step out of the kitchen, Catelyn called out to her, “Smile, Brienne. Smile.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Is anyone hungry? The more I write, the hungrier I am...  
> 2\. No Jaime yet. My apologizes to those who are only here for him. He'll be here soon.  
> 3\. Podrick is one of my favourite characters after Brienne and Jaime. He's such a cinnamon roll of a character! <3
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are always welcome!  
> More to come...


	3. The Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Jaime and his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RATING CHANGE FOR THIS CHAPTER.  
> This chapter is rated T to M because of language. Let's thank Bronn for that. We all know how Bronn is.
> 
> This story is more from Brienne's side than Jaime's because that's what the two films were like. However, I will be adding Jaime's perspectives, LIKE IN THIS CHAPTER. :D

Jaime Lannister had been one of the most sought-after chefs in Westeros. He was known for his creativity and legendary knife skills. Together with Tyrion's help in the business aspects, he had co-built _Riverrun_ from the ground up. It had taken them a few years, but it became a Varys-star restaurant, known for the use of molecular gastronomy. He became a culinary star with the looks, the talent, and the charm. Euron Greyjoy had nothing on him. After a live stream from the Riverrun kitchen, where he served up the largest living king crab in Westeros history five different ways, the culinary world had even went as far as nicknaming him, _The Kingslayer_.

Then, it all came crashing down. Jaime went from being in the clouds to rock-bottom in a matter of minutes.

Following a busy dinner service, Jaime had stayed behind to close-up _Riverrun_ for the night. His sous-chef and friend, Bronn, waited in front of the establishment with a cigarette, while he closed the back entrance. What had greeted Jaime in the backroom made his heart freeze—his former employee, Vargo Hoat, with a sadistic smile on his face, and a glint of silver in his hand—a meat cleaver. The man had always been disquieting, which was why Jaime had let him go. He would harass the female employees and told incredibly rude and disturbing stories in the kitchen. The man had been in a rage when he was laid off. Although, Jaime had not expected this showdown. All Jaime remembered was Hoat's perverse laughter, the face screaming revenge, and the struggle against him, before he felt a searing pain, and succumbed to darkness.

In the end, the doctors had amputated his right hand, his knife hand. He had learned that Bronn had gone back into the building having wondered what had taken him so long. Bronn had heard grunting and clattering from the backroom, and rushed in in time to knockout Vargo Hoat, seconds after Hoat severed Jaime's hand.

For the past two months, Jaime Lannister had been moping about in his penthouse apartment in the Red Keep district dispassionately flicking through _Westflix_ and cursing at the world. His usually clean-shaven face sported an unkept beard and his thick, golden hair lacked its usual lustre. Other than the therapy sessions Tyrion forced him to go to, he rarely left the house for anything—he had food delivered to his apartment. His brother, Tyrion, said he looked like a homeless, rich man, when he dropped by with alcohol one night, looking exhausted from a meeting with their father, Tywin. His step-sister, Cersei, pretended Jaime didn't exist. She said he was only half a man now.

This morning, he had walked with dragging feet and his head down through a farmer's market to get home from his appointment with his therapist. Jaime had lost all hope and motivation, until he bumped into someone—he had not been watching where he was going. She was possibly the tallest woman he had ever seen in his life, and he had seen his fair share of tall supermodels come through _Riverrun_. _'Also the ugliest,'_ he had thought, _'With the most astonishing blue eyes.'_ They were slightly red with hints of wetness at the corners. The woman had berated him for not paying attention, before recognition materialized on her face. _'The Kingslayer,'_ she stated before wrinkling her nose in distaste at his appearance. _'You lost a hand and you become a mopey mess,'_ she had criticized, eyes flaring with anger _. 'Welcome to the real world where people have important things taken from them. Grow up!'_ she had spat out before storming off.

The woman's words had sparked a fire in Jaime.

He had hurried home, and shaved his beard to a designer stubble and scrubbed his body clean to its original radiance, as Tyrion liked to teasingly call it. Jaime felt like a new man.

Now, here he was in the kitchen of his apartment, cooking up a storm. Various pots, pans, fresh produce and spices were scattered all over his large kitchen.

"You know, you're shit with a knife."

Jaime stopped chopping for a moment to glare at his friend, Bronn. _'I should downgrade him from friend.'_

"Better than you," he retorted.

"Nope, you may have been a bit better than me before your accident. Now you're lucky if you're better than a culinary student."

"I'm using my left hand. If my right hand existed, I'd finish all of these before you," Jaime defended, gesturing to the mound of vegetables next to his chopping board.

"I don't even know why I'm fucking here. I could be fucking," Bronn commented whilst raiding his fridge for a beer. He popped one open before taking a gulp.

"You're my tongue."

"Unless it's licking a pretty girl's cunt, I don't want anything to do with your tongue."

"Don't start." Jaime glared at Bronn. "You know what I mean. If I want to get back into the game, I need practice. So, I need you to taste dishes for me and tell me if it's any good because you're my sous-chef. I trust your palate."

"Not really your sous-chef anymore though am I?" Bronn pointed out. "Remind me again why you're not going back to your own restaurant, and instead planning on being a sous-chef at _Winterfell_? _A sous-chef!_ _At Winterfell!_ And Catelyn Stark doesn't even fucking like you."

"Catelyn Stark and I have an understanding. I'll work for her as payment for all the shit my family put her family through. She needs a replacement since Pod's leaving when the baby comes, and I can practice with my left hand without ruining my own restaurant. It's a win-win," Jaime disclosed. "Not to mention I want to know the secret behind that saffron sauce."

Jaime had called Catelyn Stark straight after his epiphany. She had been skeptical at first. The longstanding hatred between the Lannisters and the Starks was legendary. He eventually convinced her that he was trying to be a better man, and that his amputation changed him. It was the truth.

Bronn laughed. "So you're going to infiltrate enemy defences. You're either fucking stupid or fucking brilliant."

"Let's go with brilliant," Jaime smirked. "You should thank me you know. You're the executive chef of _Riverrun_ now. See, I told you. A Lannister always—"

"Don't say it. Don't fucking say it," Bronn groaned, taking another swig of beer, before almost choking on his own laughter.

"Seven Hells, you're going to be Podrick fucking Payne's sous-chef!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still haven't read the books, but I know about Vargo Hoat.  
> I am the type of person that likes to research about everything and everyone once I am obsessed with it. So, I searched up Locke, and found out he's a condensed version of Vargo Hoat. They should've kept Hoat in the show. He's more interesting than Locke. And what kind of lame name is Locke, anyways? Though, Noah Taylor was brilliant as him.
> 
> Bronn just makes me laugh. He's the best and the worst. Haha!
> 
> I wanted a kinder backstory to the Kingslayer nickname. This story is meant to be a "rom-com" not a full-blown drama. Though, we do get a disabled Jaime, so there's the drama for you.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! More to come. :)


	4. Overcooked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet a nice person and a not-so-nice person.

Brienne had decided long ago that the Boltons were not really worth her time. Walda Bolton was not too bad. She was kind and appreciative of her food, but she had the tendency to over-share which led to some awkward conversations. She mentally shuddered, remembering the time she talked about her husband's performance in bed. Her husband, Roose, on the other hand, disturbed Brienne. He was constantly asking about the knives she used and how she liked to flay her meats, which she would respond that her butcher would do that for her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her boss trying to diffuse a situation with a patron at table ten. Brienne excused herself from the Boltons, and walked towards the table where a strikingly beautiful blonde woman, and a man, who she originally thought was a child until she saw the stubble on his face, were seated. Noticing Brienne, Catelyn quickly sent her a look that clearly said, "I have this under control. _DO NOT_ come over." The tall chef paused a few feet away, unbeknownst to the blonde woman. The man, however, had seen the entire exchange, and decided to intervene.

"Cersei, don't cause a scene," the short man recommended.

"You, stay out of it. I'm already forced to suffer dinner with you alone, since Jaime decided to have a fucking epiphany and cancelled at the last possible second. You do not get to tell me what to do," Cersei hissed, before turning back to Catelyn. "I want to speak to your chef!"

"Mrs. Baratheon, I am sorry to hear your steak is not cooked how you wanted it. I will take it off the bill and get you another one," Catelyn offered with as much grace as possible.

"Did your hearing die with your poor, old husband, Ned?" she sneered, as the blood drained from Catelyn's face. "I demand to speak with your chef!"

"I am the chef," Brienne announced through clenched teeth, having heard enough.

The woman turned to look at her and immediately scoffed. "You? Is that so?" Her piercing green eyes surveyed the six-foot-three chef in front of her.

Brienne's face flamed red. "Apologize to Mrs. Stark," she growled.

"I can't apologize for something that is clearly true," Cersei replied, unaffected. "You, on the other hand, can apologize for showing me your ugly face and for this horrid, overcooked steak."

Brienne brushed off the attack on her physical apperance, and looked at the steak. "My steak is not overcooked." She proceeded to explain the cooking process in detail; each word became increasingly edged.

"Oh do bore someone else with your incompetence," Cersei said airily. "I must say I'm not surprised. The Starks always had poor taste and their choice in employees is no different. I don't understand how you became a chef when you can overcook a simple steak."

"What is overcooked is your soul. Perhaps you spent too long in the Seven Hells. It has dried up your tastebuds to the point where all you taste is ash!" Brienne retorted. Her control slipped, shocking Catelyn, though it did not show on the woman's face.

Cersei eyes flared. " _How dare you_ , you ugly cow! It's no wonder my steak is overcooked. I bet it's a struggle to cook something that resembles yourself."

She stood up and addressed an amused Tyrion. "I'm leaving. You can stay if you want, I don't care. But you are paying for this repugnant dinner." Without waiting for a reply, she flaunted out of the restaurant, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying dishes as she strut pass.

"Always had to have the last word, my _dear_ sister. Not many people would have the guts to talk back to my Cersei, and I applaud you for that. I would also apologize for my sister's manners, but as you can see she doesn't have any," the short man offered both women. "But I am sorry you both had to suffer that. I know for a fact that something out of your kitchen, Chef Tarth, cannot be anything short of spectacular, if my delicious lamb tonight and your sous-chef are anything to go by. Young Pod has been raving about you every since I've met and hired him as my occasional private chef. He deeply wants to impress you with the things he has learned from your instruction."

Brienne blushed, her face regaining the bright red hue that had begun to fade. Tyrion rose from his seat, and dropped enough gold dragons on the table to pay for the meal and leave a generous tip.

Tyrion smiled. "I, for one, would be delighted to have another meal here, without my step-sister of course." He gave a gentle nod. "Goodnight Mrs. Stark, Chef Tarth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks reading!
> 
> To be continued... :)


	5. Yellow Daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is wrong with Brienne?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot in this chapter diverges a bit from the films.

Catelyn Stark was the first to discern a change in Brienne; call it mother's intuition if you will. The slightly slumped shoulders and expressionless face were indicators, but if you did not know Brienne well, you would assume she was austere and had poor posture. She noticed a yellow daisy lapel pin on her chef jacket that had not been there previously. Recently, she would catch her head chef staring off into space, and spending more time hidden in the kitchen freezer when the kitchen was calmer. However, it was when Podrick nervously told her that he saw Brienne crying in there one time that she became worried.

"Brienne, what has become of you? I have never heard you speak to a customer like that since you started working here," Catelyn questioned with a furrowed brow.

The two women stood inside the kitchen cold room. Catelyn had pulled Brienne aside after their unfortunate encounter with Cersei Baratheon.

"That woman just insulted you _and_ your husband!" Brienne protested.

"Yes, what Cersei Baratheon said was out of line. And yes, I did want to say some very choice words to her. But you have to remember that she is a customer," her boss reminded. "If I started arguing with every single customer I hated, _Winterfell_ would run out of business. Besides, the Lannisters have always been out for blood, especially my family's. Cersei will always be a piece of work like her father and twin. Her eldest son, no better. I am surprised Tyrion had a kind word to say at all."

The chef frowned with her arms crossed and stared soberly at the floor.

"Brienne," the older woman sighed, putting a soft hand on the taller woman's left bicep. "I appreciate you defending my honour. You are a loyal and honourable woman, and I like to think of you as one of my own daughters. But you need to pull yourself together."

Brienne looked up. The beginning of tears glistened in her eyes.

"Oh Brienne..." Catelyn gently cradled the taller woman's face in both hands. "Please tell me what's been bothering you. If not me, then tell your therapist friend, or your father. Don't hold it all in, darling. You're worrying me."

"I'm fine," Brienne smiled thinly, furiously brushing off the tears that were starting to fall.

"You are not fine, my dear. Better yet, take some time off and clear your head."

"Chefs don’t take time off. I don't need—"

"That was not a suggestion. It was an order."

"But Pod's never run a kitchen by himself. I can't leave him alone," Brienne choked out between sobs.

"Pod will have things running well at hand. It'll be a test to prepare him for when he runs his own kitchen in the future, as well as practice for when the baby comes. You've trained him well."

Catelyn noticed her head chef's look of skepticism.

"If worst comes to worst, I will run the kitchen myself," she declared.

"But Catelyn—" Brienne spluttered, eyes wide.

"You do well remember that I was the one who hired and mentored you all those years ago. I haven't forgotten how to cook, Brienne. You just enjoyed it more than I did," Catelyn reprimanded lightly.

Brienne nodded meekly. Catelyn pulled her into a hug.

"Everything will be okay here. Take the time you need and take care of yourself. Go visit your father. He is now calling me since his daughter won't call him."

The chef laughed quietly with a sniffle while pulling away from her surrogate mother. Catelyn brushed the remaining tear tracks from Brienne's face, before turning to head out of the cold room.

"Now get back to work," she tossed over her shoulder.

"Yes, chef."

* * *

_**A month earlier.** _

It was raining. Of course it was. The depressing grey sky and wet, sagging grass matched how Brienne was feeling. The only bright spot were the yellow daisies that warmed the bleak ground as she laid them in front of the grey stone. They had been her best friend's favourites and symbolized what she remembered of him—happiness, joy and friendship.

She had received the call three days ago, while she was cooking up a storm. Being his emergency contact, the hospital had notified her late in the evening that Renly Baratheon had passed away. She had rushed to the hospital, and became paralyzed when she saw his ashen face. A car accident. A delivery van had lost control and slammed hard into the front of his gold Mini Cooper. He was alive, but unconscious when the paramedics brought him to the emergency room. The doctors had immediately taken him to surgery, but couldn't stop the extensive bleeding into his lungs. There was nothing they could have done, Brienne was told.

Renly had called her that afternoon from his car. He was on his way from Storm's End University, where he was working towards his doctorate, to see her. She had been so excited to see him again. Storm's End was several hours away, and between her demanding schedule at _Winterfell_ and his tight deadlines for his thesis, they had difficulty finding time to meet up. Daily Raven-chats were not the same as seeing someone face-to-face. Thus, it came as a surprise when they both had a free weekend. Renly had finished the first stage of his research, and _Winterfell_ had a burst pipe causing the restaurant to close until it was fixed; the building was so old.

She had been preparing his favourite dish of seared scallops in a saffron sauce. It was the first dish she had created straight out of graduating culinary school, and Renly had been the lucky guinea pig to taste it firsthand. The dish now left a sour taste in her mouth. She planned to scratch the dish off the _Winterfell_ menu. Perhaps duck, served roasted with onions, shallots, and truffles in a thyme sauce.

“Thank you for being a great friend. The very best,” Brienne whispered to the tombstone. "I miss you." She brushed her fingers over the inscription. "You were the first person besides my dad to show me kindness, and I'll never forget that."

She had met Renly at her dad's army retirement party a fifteen years ago. Brienne had been captivated by the attention she received from some of the soldiers—from dance offers and flirty comments, to even marriage proposals. Unfortunately, she quickly learned it was all artificial. She had seen one of the privates snickering. Soon, the lot were openly laughing and calling her names. The game was over.

She had tried to flee the party, but ended up finding solace in the arms of Renly. _'Nasty little shits aren't worth crying over,'_ he had said, and proceeded to dance with her all evening. The soldiers could not say anything. He was a Baratheon, and that name had weight. He was kind and thoughtful, and understood the feeling of being cast aside. He had announced to his family that he liked men, and was instantly shunned out. In the years that Brienne got to knew Renly, she had not met or heard from anyone in his family. They didn't even attend his funeral.

From that day forth, she pledged to care for him and counted him as her best friend.

He saved her.

She hated that she could not save him in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been good at writing sad things, but this had to be written. I hope it was decent.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated!  
> Thanks for reading!  
> ♥
> 
> More to come soon!


	6. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little chapter. Enjoy!

The cloudless blue sky matched the clear blue water which glittered in the sunlight. It was a glorious day to be outside. The salty air from the sea was a refreshing substitute to the dusty and rancid sewer smell in King's Landing. The gentle ocean breeze tickled her face, as she crossed her arms on the railing of the ferry heading to Tarth. Brienne followed Catelyn's instructions to take a week off to see her father back home. Selwyn Tarth had been delighted to hear his only child was visiting, and gently scolded her for not coming by sooner. He had missed his little girl. Brienne had rolled her eyes at the 'little' part, she was anything but little now, though she would be lying if she said she did not miss her father and her childhood home. As a child, the isle of Tarth had been a tranquil and happy environment for her to grow, and encompassed enough nature to placate her adventurous and curious disposition.

As the ferry parked at the pier, she spotted a large man with thinning, straw-blond hair amidst the small gathering of people waiting for the ferry. At six-foot-five, he stood head and shoulders above everyone else with a beaming smile and the most ridiculous pineapple-print shirt on. _'Oh dad...'_ She adored her father, even when he was a goofball. You would not be able to guess he was a retired military general and the Lord of Evenfall. With her backpack on her shoulders, she disembarked the ferry and straight into the arms of her father.

"Oh, my little Bri!" Selwyn exclaimed in his booming voice, frightening some people around him. He squeezed Brienne to his chest, lifting her slightly off the ground.

"Not little anymore, Dad," Brienne chuckled lightly, almost in a huff. "Put me down, you don't want to hurt your back."

"You'll always be my little sunshine," he replied, setting her back on her feet, and putting his hands on her shoulders, staring intently at her. "Now, I bet you must be hungry. How does a good old fashioned seafood stew? It might not be as good as yours, but it will do."

"I may be a chef now, but nothing beats your seafood stew, Dad."

"Oh I missed you, Brienne." He enveloped her back into a bear hug.

* * *

A steaming blue bowl of thick stew of mussels, clams, crab, shrimp and fish was placed before her on the kitchen island. The smell was heavenly, a combination of the sea and the earth. A plate of fresh, thickly-sliced sourdough bread was at her two o'clock. Brienne ripped a chunk of sourdough, dipped it into her stew, and plopped it into her mouth. She closed eyes in satisfaction, savouring the contrast between the rich and creamy stew and the mildly acidic and bouncy texture of the bread.

"Still the best, Dad," she said, after she swallowed her bite. She picked up her spoon to take bigger mouthfuls of the stew.

"Glad to hear an old man like me can still get a compliment from a star chef." Selwyn replied, as he wiping down the counter top with a towel. "Now, what is this I hear from Catelyn about you having a meltdown, hmm?"

Brienne froze mid-chew with a frown, tears beginning to spring forth. She gently laid down the spoon on the table. She sniffled and pursed her lips, trying to contain herself.

"Brienne?" Selwyn snapped his head up in alarm. As soon as he saw the tears, he dropped the towel on the counter, and rushed around the island to his daughter.

She could not hold it in any longer. "Renly died." She choked out in between sobs. "He died and I couldn't save him."

Selwyn gathered her into his chest, one hand on the back of her head, the other on her back. She gripped the front of his shirt and weeped. Her racking sobs broke his heart.

"Just let it out, Brienne" he murmured, stroking her short blonde hair. "Let it out."

Brienne allowed herself to properly cry for the first time since Renly's passing. Even when she had seen him on the hospital gurney, she had been paralyzed and in denial. When she returned home the following morning from the hospital, she turned on her laptop and waited for his name to pop-up online on Raven. Her heart broke when his name never appeared. For the following month, she spent her time in limbo. Everything appeared to move at high-speed around her. She passed through life in an automatic fashion, all habit, no passion, like those wights from the tales of long ago. It was her encounter with the Kingslayer that shifted her back to the world of the living. Renly was dead, and that man had the audacity to throw his life away just because he lost a hand. Then, her argument with Cersei Baratheon detonated her pent-up anger—check number three on the stages of grief.

Her tears eventually subsided after a few minutes, when her tear ducts protested and refused to produce anymore liquid. Selwyn supplied her with a box of tissues to wipe her tears and blow her nose.

"Sorry about your shirt," she whispered, her voice a bit scratchy.

"Never apologize for that, Brienne. It's just a shirt, and I know how ridiculous you find it," Selwyn murmured, kissing the crown of her head.

Her laugh was hollow. "He was my best friend. I loved him," she said morosely with a snivel. "We didn't see each other often, but we were always there for each other. He died alone. I wasn't there for him."

She fidgeted with the tissues in her hands. "I don't know what to do without him now."

He gently cradled her face. "You live, my little sunshine. You live."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always pictured Selwyn Tarth as Liam Cunningham (Davos in the show), but much taller and with straw-blond hair. :D  
> Also, Catelyn is dead in the show, and we don't even meet Selwyn, but I weirdly ship them together in my head. Haha!
> 
> The next chapter will be more fun. I promise. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! ❣


	7. Who Do You Think You Are?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is a dork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the song, Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen.  
> Let's just pretend Queen existed in Westeros. They're too legendary.  
> Plus, it fits. Queen. Queensguard. *shrugs* :D
> 
> Random A/N:  
> Also, please tell me you guys have seen Gwendoline Christie's Rolls Royce commercial. Ugh. Dead.  
> Can someone just make her a spy (not necessarily 007, her own badass spy film) or a superhero? She'd be amazing! ♥

_**A Week Later** _

The brisk autumn air curled around her as she strolled down Kingsroad Avenue to _Winterfell_. The people of King's Landing navigated through the streets in light coats and scarves—gone were the shorts and flip-flops. She had only been away for a week, but in that short period of time, the weather in King's Landing had cooled significantly. The few trees lining Kingsroad were starting to show signs of decay; yellow and pale orange spots were appearing on the leaves. Winter was coming.

Brienne had returned to King's Landing from visiting her father mid-morning. Although she was still devastated, spending a week in Tarth had helped her process Renly's passing—at the very least she was no longer in denial and cursing the Seven for such a cruel act. Selwyn had suggested she share her situation with Margaery, in order to have someone to confide in besides him. She was hesitant at first, even though Margaery was a close friend and a psychiatrist, but she ultimately called and spent her afternoon in her friend's loft. Said friend had pulled Brienne into a hug immediately when she conveyed her grief—psychiatrist-mode turned off. It had felt strange to burden someone else with her sadness and issues.

Brienne pulled the collar of her black trench coat closer as a sudden crisp breeze swept by. She was supposed to be due back at the restaurant tomorrow. However, her anxious and curious energy won out. A sneak peek of what she was in-store for would settle her conscience she had decided. She hoped Pod had controlled the kitchen well in her absence. It would be horrifying to learn that Catelyn was running the kitchen once again.

From the exterior, _Winterfell_ looked to have a full house for dinner service with patrons waiting inside just to the right of the front door. Upon entering, Brienne automatically felt eyes on her. At six-foot-three, she often towered over both men and women. Add to that a face too feminine to be male, but too beastly to be female, it resulted in her being gawked at often. Hence, her preference of being in the kitchen rather than interacting with customers. She also loved cooking, let us not forget about that. Ignoring the stares, she held her head high, and walked straight towards the kitchen, avoiding the busboys running around, and faintly nodding to her co-workers who meekly acknowledged her presence with "Hi Chef!". Unbeknownst to her, her boss had noticed her entrance with a quirk of an eyebrow, perplexed by her head chef's early return. Catelyn discreetly followed.

Brienne was steps away from the kitchen, when she heard the melodic voice of Freddie Mercury. Bewildered, she pushed open the double-swinging doors, almost colliding into a giggling Sansa Stark carrying entrées, who quickly schooled her features and apologized. What greeted her was _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , her cooks chatting and working at a slightly slower speed, and her sous-chef snickering at whatever was said by an unknown tall, blonde man waving around an uncooked quail in his left hand, his back faced her. Pod at least had the decency to appear startled when he finally acknowledged her existence.

"Good evening, Chef!" he stuttered out loudly. A disjointed symphony of greetings followed suit, before a bustle of activity commenced, their work speed doubling. All except, one.

The blonde man spun around with a boyish grin on his face; the raw quail still in his left hand. He was missing his other hand. _'The Kingslayer,'_ Brienne deduced with disgust. _'What in the Seven Hells?'_

"Oh the Sevens, it's you!" Jaime exclaimed in awe, recognizing her from the farmer's market. "You're much uglier in the kitchen."

"Excuse me?" she growled. It was one thing to be ridiculed, but to be insulted in her own kitchen was unacceptable.

"Oh wait, listen to this guys!" He turned up the volume on the speaker sitting on the corner of what he claimed as his workbench. "Listen to this right here."

 _I see a little silhouetto of a man,_  
_Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?_  
_Thunderbolt and lightning,_  
_Very, very frightening me._  
_(Galileo) Galileo._  
_(Galileo) Galileo,_  
_Galileo Figaro_  
_Magnifico-o-o-o-o._

"Ready, guys?" Jaime pointed at the line cooks with his stump. He bellowed out,

 _"I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me._  
_He's just a poor boy from a poor family,_  
_Spare him his life from this monstrosity."_

Then he whispered exaggeratedly, _"Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?"_

He began to direct the kitchen staff like a symphony conductor, using the still raw quail in his hand as a baton.

 _"Bismillah! No, we will not let you go. (Let him go!)_  
_Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let him go!)_  
_Bismillah! We will not let you go. (Let me go!)_  
_Will not let you go. (Let me go!)_  
_Never let you go (Never, never, never, never let me go)_  
_Oh oh oh oh_  
_No, no, no, no, no, no, no_  
_Oh, mama mia, mama mia (Mama mia, let me go.)_

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me..."_

_"For me!!!!"_ Jaime sang, borderline screamed, before banging his head to the rock interlude and playing air guitar with the—annoyingly, still raw—quail.

Everyone in the kitchen laughed at his antics. Pod smiled, unable to help himself, but rapidly directed everyone to get back to work and lowering the music volume, after seeing his mentor's furious face.

"Who do you think you are, _Kingslayer_?" she fumed.

"Jaime Lannister, _not_ _Kingslayer_ , at your service," he replied with a mock bow. "And may I just say the world would be a dark and depressing place without your truffle sauce. I am begging you, will you please tell me the secret?" He united his stump with his left hand, which was still holding the quail, and makes a praying motion.

Catelyn entered the kitchen, immediately recognizing Brienne's mask of fury and displeasure. She looked at Jaime with a disapproving frown, who instantly raised his arms up in surrender with a cheeky grin on his face.

 _'The damn raw quail is still in his hand.'_ Brienne thought, shooting him a glare, before turning to Catelyn. "We need to talk."

* * *

"You could've asked me before I left," Brienne said, following her boss around the restaurant.

"You were already dealing with your issues. I didn't want to pile on another thing. Jaime Lannister called that morning, and requested to work here. I acted quickly," Catelyn explained.

"The last thing I need is some lunatic in my kitchen," the taller woman complained, avoiding a diner with a boulder of a purse.

"He's not a lunatic. He's just a highly exuberant Varys-star chef."

"Exuberant? He's an overgrown child! The man thinks he's Freddie bloody Mercury!" she grumbled, dodging Gendry who was carrying a stack of plates.

The discussion paused for a brief moment as soon as they reached the front of the restaurant. Catelyn welcomed a waiting couple and guided them to their reserved table twenty-four. Brienne trailed after the trio at close distance. Once the couple was seated and introduced to their waiter, Brienne continued her line of inquiry, as they walked back towards the kitchen.

"We agreed that you'll let me choose the kitchen staff when you promoted me. He has one hand and a stump. He'll slow us down."

"He hasn't slowed us down yet. He's running the kitchen well with Podrick," Catelyn stated.

"I thought you hated the Lannisters, and you went ahead and brought one in anyways," Brienne persisted.

"I do hate the Lannisters, but it seems that the Kingslayer has been humbled. He has apologized and is now more like his brother than his step-sister and father, after having his hand chopped off. Besides, he has promised to help Sansa get an interview at _Wildfire_ , since he's friends with the editor-in-chief."

Brienne pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "You bring in the Kingslayer from a competing restaurant, and I'm the one that needs therapy?"

Catelyn shrugged. "He said he wanted to work with the creator of the legendary saffron sauce."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love a dorky!Jaime.  
> I love Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen (Not the film. It was meh...).  
> Put these two together + food and I am a happy person. :D


	8. Man Without Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne wants to throw knives at Jaime.

"You have _the_ Jaime Lannister working as your sous-chef?" Margaery marvelled, taking a sip from her glass of mimosa.

"Yes," Brienne sighed with disdain.

The two ladies were sitting in Brienne's home kitchen table, eating the brunch she had prepared. The chef's humble townhouse on Crownlands Road in Cobbler's Square was warm and cozy, but nowhere close to the spacious and extravagant loft that her friend had in the Highgarden district. Brienne had shared the news of Jaime Lannister working at _Winterfell_ in hopes that she would get sympathy from her friend. It did not seem to be the case, the opposite in fact.

"The golden son of _the_ legendary actress Joanna Lannister? The _Targaryen_ award-winning chef with the _Vary's_ star restaurant? _Baelish_ magazine's Sexiest Man of the Year for consecutive years running, and probably of all-time in Westeros? _That_ Jaime Lannister?" the brunette prodded, fanning herself.

"Your point being?" the blonde droned, spearing a bourbon-glazed carrot onto her fork.

"I'm saying, you have an accomplished, rich, handsome man working for you, who actually wants to work with you, and you're complaining about him cooking a large crab live on TV and singing Queen songs in the kitchen?" Margaery answered with a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised. "You don't see a problem with that picture?"

The chef glowered. "That king crab was part of Westeros history, and he killed it! It had a name! He didn't even use the entire crab! Not to mention he bought out Edmure Tully's restaurant because he liked the building! I don't want to work with a chef without honour." Thinking about Jaime _bloody_ Lannister left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Brienne, I'm speaking as a friend and not your psychiatrist right now when I say this. Just give Jaime Lannister a chance. He might surprise you," Margaery advised.

Brienne narrowed her eyes. "And speaking as a psychiatrist?"

"Give him a chance and he might surprise you," the psychiatrist-Margaery replied in a neutral, almost borderline boring tone.

Brienne rolled her eyes and grumbled. "He'll probably surprise me by wearing pyjamas under his chef jacket."

* * *

Brienne wanted to throw knives at somebody, preferably at the Kingslayer. _'I'm probably psychic,'_ she had theorized, as Jaime Lannister did arrive to work wearing pyjama pants to go with his pristine white chef jacket. They were crimson with little gold lions on them. _'Of course he's wearing pyjamas,'_ she had thought, a pencil clenched tightly in her fist. _'The Seven hate you_. _'_ When Hot Pie had asked about the PJs, Jaime had replied saying they were a gift from his niece on his birthday, and that they were comfortable with breathable cotton. _'It gets hot and steamy in the kitchen,'_ he had joked with heavy emphasis on the two adjectives while his wiggling eyebrows; it evoked a laugh from the staff. She had not been able to suppress the red flush that engulfed her face, when she heard that, causing him to smirk.

The restaurant personnel were seated around a long dining table for their late lunch-early dinner. Brienne sat at one end, her right leg crossed over the other, working on the _King's Landing Times_ crossword puzzle. It gave her mind a workout and an energy boost before the rush of the dinner service. On the other end of the dining table, Jaime divvied up a pot of spaghetti into portions for each staff member. Each plate was passed down the table until it reached Brienne who relayed it back around automatically without taking her eyes off of her crossword. Her brows furrowed when no one took the plate from her hand. Podrick, who sat next to her, indicated that it was for her. Jaime frowned with a slight wrinkle of his forehead when he took notice of the exchange between the two chefs.

"How can you expect to judge food when you're on an empty stomach?" Jaime voiced aloud to his superior. "When you're hungry, everything tastes better than it is."

"I never eat before the dinner service," she replied, returning to her crossword.

Dissatisfied with her response, he walked purposefully around the table to her and leaned in close; his left hand rested on the back of her chair. He pretended not to notice the flush that began to crawl up her neck due to his close proximity. He did however start counting the freckles on her nose and cheeks, before quickly reminding himself of his objective.

"My aunt Genna whispered this recipe into my ear on her deathbed. It has been passed down her mother's side of the family for generations, and I have made it especially for you all today," he proclaimed, staring straight into her eyes.

She sent him a glare at him, her blue eyes emitting a hint of fire. _'She really does have the most beautiful eyes...'_ he thought, his heart skipping a beat.

Their stares remained locked for what felt like eternity. The rest of the staff stayed silent, watching the fierce, quiet battle between the two chefs. A few of the employees were afraid of what would happen, having received their head chef's wraith before. Arya was sending death-glares at the Lannister for trying to tell Brienne what to do. Eventually, Brienne laid her crossword on the table and picked up her fork. She twirled the fork in the spaghetti and took a substantial bite.

"Happy?" She looked at him defiantly with her arms crossed.

"Very happy," Jaime returned with a smug smile. He sauntered back to the other end of the table to dole out a portion for himself.

Catelyn was amused, if a tiny bit peeved. She had attempted daily over the years to get Brienne to eat, after the girl had fainted from hunger in her line cook days. The girl worked too hard for her own good. She ultimately conceded her defeat, and now resorted to only trying once a month. Yet, here was Jaime Lannister, seizing the victory after his first attempt with a little white lie. She would hate to admit it aloud, but the golden boy Lannister might be good for her Brienne.

"I thought your aunt Genna lived in the Riverlands?" Catelyn asked with a raised eyebrow.

He shrugged with a subtle grin on his face."Yes, no...well, you know...we all thought she wasn't going to make it. It was a like a miracle!" He passed off what appeared to be a convincing abashed look.

Brienne felt the flush rising to her face. She clenched her jaw, her lips forming a thin, straight line. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed several of the servers trying to cover their snickering. Feeling betrayed, she rose from her seat abruptly, startling Podrick, and stormed out of the dining room to the kitchen. Her crossword was left resting next to the barely-touched plate of spaghetti.

The table was silent once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you guys seen little comics about Braime by fawnilu over on Tumblr? I personally love the 'Idiot Sandwich' one. It so matches the dynamic of my Braime here. 😅
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts!  
> Another chapter will arrive soon-ish.


	9. What Do You Want?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime confronts Brienne.

The second the door to the kitchen closed, Arya called him out.

"What'd you do that for you idiot?! If Chef doesn't want to eat, you don't make her eat. You're not the boss of her!"

"Arya, calm down! I've been trying to do the same thing for years." Catelyn voiced.

"But he lied! You just politely ask her to. And you're _mom_. He's—" Arya gestured vaguely at him with a face of disgust. "— _that._ "

Not that he cared about Arya's anger, but Jaime did feel a little ashamed for tricking the woman into eating, as soon as she flew off into the kitchen. It seemed to make Chef Tarth dislike him all the more, which lowered his spirits a bit. He also felt slightly guilty for saying his aunt Genna was gravely ill, but he did not think his aunt would mind; she was an understanding woman. ' _The situation called for it, and it was for a worthy cause. How would aunt Genna know anyways?'_ He mentally shrugged.

Feeling the urge to apologize, he stood up solemnly without a word, and shuffled to the kitchen. He could feel Arya's glare burning the back of his skull. If he found his jacket literally on fire one day, he would not be surprised. _'That girl needs to chill._ '

Upon learning the kitchen was void of her presence, he continued to the backroom where her closet-sized office was. The door was closed, but he could see her through the sidelight to the right of the door. She was sitting on an office chair with her long legs propped up on the desk, crossed at the ankles. Her head was tilted back, face partially covered by her hands massaging her temples. Her midnight blue chef jacket laid gently on the back of her chair, leaving her in a grey tank top, her muscled arms bare. _'Freckles. So many freckles on that creamy pale skin.'_ He swallowed thickly, mentally slapping himself for thinking of such thoughts.

To prevent his thoughts from running wild, he knocked on the door, startling Brienne. He smiled sheepishly at her with a wave of his stump hand. She glowered at him and hurriedly put her chef jacket back on.

"Hi Freckles," he blurted out, once the door opened.

He immediately berated himself when she went to shut the door on him. "Sorry, _Chef Tarth_."

"Don't you mock me," she growled, arms crossed in front of her chest. "What do you want?"

He had forgotten how tall she was. At six-foot-two, he was usually taller than most people, but she was even taller than him. He was not used to having to peer up when talking to someone. She filled up the doorway, her head almost touching the door jamb. Her presence was imposing.

"I'm trying to apologize." His face was serious.

"For?" Her brows furrowed.

"For the spaghetti thing."

Brienne huffed and turned back towards her desk. He deflated a little, but watched as she seized the knife secured magnetically onto the wall next to her shelf. She sliced the sheet of paper, hanging off the edge off her shelf above the desk. The top half of the sheet remained attached to the shelf, while she grabbed the bottom half, and shoved it into his chest. He felt her hand linger on his chest for a brief moment, and he let out a discreet ragged breath as warmth flooded him.

"You take care of those dishes and I'll take care of the rest," she informed him, turning back to her desk. "Then we won't get in each other's way."

He glanced briefly at his sheet before narrowing his eyes at the other sheet. "Wait, your half is bigger than mine."

She spun back around with her knife still clutched in her hand. She rose an eyebrow, as if to say, _'Do you really want to try me right now?'_

He took a step backwards with his arms up in surrender. "Right. Right." He peered at his sheet again and grinned boyishly. "I have some very big items."

She rolled her eyes and closed the door in his face.

"I got beef! I got lamb!" He called out to her door, as he sauntered back to the kitchen with a smile on his face.

* * *

"Table thirteen: one chestnut, one halibut, two lamb," Brienne called out while moving tickets around on the rail. "Five: carpaccio."

They stood side-by-side along the pass bench. Podrick caught him staring at her a few times with an amused smirk and a raised eyebrow. It was not his fault her freckles and long limbs were so distracting. She was rough, yet graceful; butch, but feminine. Her hands were manly with long, calloused digits, but they moved precisely and delicately like a pianist's hands. Each plate she constructed was meticulous and a work of art.

He leaned over her work area and snatched the bottle of yuzu dressing, just as her right hand was reaching for it. 

"I need that," she huffed.

"Sorry. You'll get it right back," he replied.

Jaime quickly drizzled a salad with the dressing, and placed it back onto the bench. She immediately grabbed the bottle and proceeded to make a light-handed swirl pattern on the plate before gently laying a portion of pan-seared halibut on top.

He paused and was immediately mesmerized by her movements again. He really needed to fill the silence to distract himself. He silently pushed the salad to the awaiting Gendry for pickup to table two. ”Can I ask you a something?”

Brienne paused for a split second mid-action. "Do I have a choice?" she sighed.

He grinned and started garnishing his plate of steak tartare. "Where did you learn to cook so well?"

"My father,” she stated bluntly, putting a small mound of pea shoots on top of the halibut. She passed the dish off to another server to serve to table six. She pulled another pristine white dish to begin plating lamb chops.

He blinked in surprise. ”Seriously? I thought you were gonna say you studied under Chef Roelle or something. “

“I did. But my dad was better, and he didn’t throw plates at me,” she confirmed, spooning a helping of velvety mashed potatoes onto the plate, serving as a base for the lamb.

Jaime moved closer to her, and peered over her shoulder to watch her delicate process. His arm was a hand’s width away from her elbow. She concentrated on making small concentric circles on the plate adjacent to the lamb with a squeeze bottle filled with a balsamic reduction. They were perfect circles until she sensed his close proximity. The next circle became a smear. The blonde man immediately backed off.

“Gods,” she huffed under her breath, putting the bottle of reduction down. “I need more space.”

Brienne grabbed the plate of lamb and moved around to the other side of the bench to continue plating. Taking her clean tea towel, she wiped off the deformed balsamic circle with a disgruntled expression plain on her face. She huffed again and continued creating the remaining little circles.

“Why are you so angry at me?” he implored, resuming his plating.

Blue eyes looked up directly at him. “I’m not angry at you,” she stated matter-of-factly.

He returned a look of slightly amused skepticism. “You’re very angry.”

She paused her plating completely. “All my life men like you have sneered at me,” she enunciated, the fire in her blue eyes glowed. “And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust. This is my kitchen. I have worked really hard to get here, and I’m not going to let you take it away from me.”

“What makes you think I want to take it away from you?” he asked, a quizzical look upon his face.

“What else could you possibly want, _Kingslayer?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. It's always a fun challenge to try and combine the film dialogue with GoT dialogue.
> 
> The chapters will be coming in a bit slower now since I have a few personal projects I am working on. Don't worry. It won't be months in between chapters. Maybe just a few more days than the usual 2-3 days I take.  
> I also have very basic ideas for two other Braime stories. One is a doctor/surgical thing, and the other is a spy/secret agent thing. Hmmm....
> 
> Anyways, drop me a comment. I love reading and responding to them. ;)  
> Toodles! ♥


	10. Under Her Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne deal with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said in the last chapter that my updates will be a bit slower. But I got a bit too excited, so here's a new chapter.  
> It's nothing long, but I hope you enjoy it! :D

Jaime watched as Brienne rapidly finalized the lamb dish and passed it to Arya who was waiting by the swinging kitchen doors, before marching straight to the walk-in refrigerator. He stared after her wistfully until she disappeared, catching Arya’s dirty look at him as she left the kitchen. She had overheard his conversation with their executive chef. Podrick, who also heard the exchange, knitted his brows in disappointment. Disappointment for whom, Jaime was unclear. _‘How did I screw up with her so many times already in one day?’_

* * *

“I think I could do a good job as your assistant,” Sansa said aloud to the eggs and cold meats with cue-cards in her hand. “I am a diligent and organized individual who—“

The cold room door opened suddenly, startling the red-head. Brienne walked in with a deadpanned face, her eyes betrayed her surprise at Sansa for a brief second. She did not expect someone to be in here.

“Sorry, I have an interview at _Wildfire_ tomorrow,” the elder Stark daughter professed.

Brienne nodded. “Would you mind?” she asked, tilting her head slightly at the door.

“Uh…yeah, no problem Brienne,” Sansa replied. She pocketed her index cards into her waitress apron, and exited the fridge. The heavy metal door automatically shut behind her.

Brienne shuffled to the back of the refrigerator, and leaned her back against the metal support of the shelf unit holding containers of sauces. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. The frigid air helped clear her mind in moments of stress. A part of her was glad she did not have the urge to cry anymore when stepping into the cold room. The chef ran a hand through her stringy blonde hair and exhaled. At the sound of the door opening, she briskly stood straight and morphed her face into an impassive state. Of course, it was Jaime Lannister that sauntered in. _‘Come to steal the cold room air as well, Kingslayer?’_ she mentally sneered.

Jaime took his time strolling towards her with his hands on his hips. He stopped an arm’s width away from her, and looked her right in the eyes.

“I don’t need this job. I can cook wherever I want,” he began. “Hell, I even have my own restaurant I could go back to. But I’d like to work here.”

He paused to gauge her reaction. When he received none, he continued, “Look, I’m not the man I used to be. But I’d be honoured to serve under your command if you’ll have me. But I’d rather work somewhere I’m welcome.”

He noted her blue eyes briefly flashing in bewilderment. This was the woman who inspired him to look beyond his disability. She had berated him in public and sparked a fire in his soul. He yearned for her approval, but he knew he had to earn it. Except, he also knew that he would leave if she asked him to.

He leaned in closer with a faint, pensive smile. _‘Hmm…she smells lightly of vanilla…’_ he pondered before regathering his thoughts.

“So if you want me to go, just say the word and I’ll pack my things.”

She stared at him unwavering. He searched her eyes for a signal. Anything. He felt his spirit begin to slowly leave him when she gave him nothing. She was silent and still.

Suddenly, the fridge door opened with Catelyn Stark standing at the doorway, a look of disapproval clear on her face. “Mind telling me what is going on here?”

Jaime stepped back, but kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Well, Chef?”

Brienne broke her gaze with him, and peered around at the storage nonchalantly, looking everywhere but him, ignoring his question. The green-eyed chef sighed inwardly and began to remove his apron.

“Lannister? Where are you going?” Their boss’s voice conveyed alarm.

He gave Brienne a defeated look before turning to leave the walk-in fridge. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stark, but you’ll have to find someone else,” he replied, handing her his apron as he brushed by Catelyn.

“Why? Brienne, what did you do?” Catelyn asked, completely baffled.

The blue-eyed chef grabbed two crème brûlées off of a rack casually, and followed the man out of the cold storage. “Nothing at all.”

The conversations in the kitchen halted abruptly, and the motions in the kitchen slowed a fraction. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the sudden commotion. The staff had been discussing the obvious tension between their two superiors. Podrick had tried his best to dissuade them, but to no avail. Catelyn turned a blind eye to her employees’ discussions, knowing fully well how the two chefs behaved. One was stubborn, overly righteous, and grieving; the latter detail she learned from Selwyn. The other was cocky and childish, with good intentions, but shoddy actions. Their styles clashed, but with time, she knew they would complement each other well.

“Jaime Lannister. I hate to admit it, but we need you,” Catelyn tried.

“I’m glad you do,” he replied, collecting his personal belongings from under the workbenches—portable speakers, a notebook, and his organized bundle of kitchen knives. “But I need to hear it from her.” He pointed at Brienne, who was plating a dish pretending to ignore the conversation. “After all, it’s her kitchen.”

“It’s mine too,” the elder woman said.

He walked up next to her. “No. It may be your restaurant, but it’s her kitchen now. Not yours. Not Ned’s. _Hers._ You know it and I know it. It’s for her to decide,” he stated honestly.

“Brienne?” 

All eyes turned to their head chef. The kitchen was silent; everyone was holding their breath waiting for the outcome. Podrick gave her a forlorn look with a discreet nod, pleading her with his eyes to allow the golden-haired man to stay. As much as she hated to admit it, she trusted her sous-chef’s opinion.

“It seems you’ve left me with no choice,” she consented nonchalantly.

The kitchen staff smirked to one another, tickled by the positive outcome. Jaime’s spirits brightened and a tiny grin appeared on his face. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” she responded testily. Brienne grabbed the blow torch and switched it on, adjusting the setting to a lesser flame.

“I didn’t hear you say those words,” he cheekily said.

She pursed her lips. “I want you to _stay,”_ she growled out, shooting glares at all her co-workers, who immediately returned to work.

He smiled smugly. “Love to,” he proclaimed, and moved closer to her. “Thought you never ask,” he leaned in and whispered into her ear, “Freckles.”

A flush started to appear on her neck. He was so close, and his breath on her ear was warm and tickled.

“By the way, you’re on fire,” he pointed out, as he moved to restore his possessions in their locations.

The towel on her hip caught fire from the blow torch she forgot she had in her hand. Brienne turned bright red with embarrassment. She threw the blazing towel on her hip onto the floor, and stomping on the flames, while turning off the blow torch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Jaime sure does like to get under Brienne's skin...
> 
> I hope you enjoyed that. I loved both film versions of this scene.
> 
> More chapters to (slowly) follow.


	11. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and her rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little chapter with Brienne. Enjoy!

Every night, bar Mondays when the restaurant was closed, Brienne would return home via taxi just after midnight following what usually was a fast-paced and tiring shift. Her new neighbour would still be awake if the low bass of the music she heard through their common wall was any indication. They had moved in a week ago when she was visiting her father. She had yet to meet them as their schedules never matched up, and she often felt uncomfortable ringing a stranger's doorbell just to introduce herself, let alone after midnight. However, she did see a glimpse of red hair once through the window.

Every morning, she would wake up at five-thirty to go for a jog from her house to the harbour in the Red Keep district; it was a good forty-five minutes or so. The waterfront had a few exercising equipment, which were generally unoccupied at that early hour. Once her conditioning exercises were completed, she would walk a block over to the fish and produce markets. She had a great rapport with the vendors, having been coming to the farmers' markets for years. They often had the freshest items on hold for her, suggested new stock, and delivered promptly to _Winterfell_ by two-thirty in the afternoon the same day, except Monday. After her selections, she would jog back home, shower, and make herself a scrumptious breakfast before completing her varied daily tasks and activities.

Routine was a constant in Brienne's life. It was comfortable and rarely wavered, but when it did, it threw her entire day off-balanced. It was already bad enough that she had to deal with the giant variable in the name of Jaime Lannister at _Winterfell_ daily, she did not need any other unknowns thrown at her.

Unfortunately, today was one of _those_ Sunday mornings. Her alarm failed to ring, and instead she woke up at eight a.m. to a strong bass beat coming through the wall.

"Fucking hell," she swore when she glanced at her bedside clock.

Having already missed her usual wake-up time, she had thought that should would at least get a quiet lie-in for the first time in a while. Instead it seemed she would need to confront her neighbour. After quickly brushing her teeth and running a comb through her disheveled hair, she pulled on more presentable clothes—her black running jacket and sweatpants—and departed her townhouse to walk a few steps to her neighbour's. She could still hear the thumping of the bass when she knocked on the door.

"Hold on!" yelled a masculine voice through the door.

She waited a moment before the door opened revealing a tall, hulking man with rusty orange hair and a thick, bushy beard in the same shade. Said man stared at her only blinking in almost wonder. She restrained herself from rolling her eyes. When he did not speak, she began to wonder if he was high.

"You're the new neighbour?" Brienne inquired almost at a yell. The house music was pounding in the background.

That seemed to snap the man's trance. "Yeah! Nice to meet ya! What brings a beaut like you 'round?" he said looking her up and down. His voice was deep grumble with a Northern accent, probably of Free Folk decent.He leaned his right forearm against the doorframe with his left hand on his hip.

She narrowed her eyes. "I live next door," she replied, pointing at her own door. "Do you mind turning your music down?"

"Anything for the lady," the burly man said with a lascivious grin.

Brienne harrumphed, crossing her arms. "Brienne's enough. I'm no lady."

"And what a beautiful name that is," he stated. "Hey White Walker, turn the volume to fifty percent," he called out.

The music volume decreased dramatically. _'Ok, I changed the volume,"_ a robotic voice announced. The bass was much more bearable now. It no longer sounded like bombs were exploding around her. Brienne and her eardrums thanked him.

"The name's Tormund Giantsbane," he disclosed. "Want to know why?" he asked with what Brienne thought was an attempt at a smoulder.

She shuddered a bit, and wrinkled her nose. "Maybe next time. I have some _things_ I need to get done," she responded, gesturing to leave.

“Then how about I tell you over dinner with me,” he tried.

Brienne sighed inwardly. “I work in the evenings,” she began. “Look, Tormund. I think you should know that I generally don’t do that.”

Tormund looked confused. “What? Work in the evenings?”

“Dinner dates,” she stated.

“Then how about breakfast? I make a mean full Westeros.”

 _‘This is painful,’_ she thought. “You live next door. I don’t generally go out with people who live on my street, as a rule,” she explained. 

“Maybe I can help break that rule,” Tormund leered, leaning in a bit. "I don’t give up that easily."

Brienne took a step back. “Sorry, Tormund, but I have to go.”

She fled back to her house before he had a chance to respond. The man made her feel uneasy with his grins and awkward attempts at flirtation. Not many men have flirted with her, but even she knew whatever he was doing was not the way.

As she entered the door, she chanced a glance back at the ginger man, and learned that he was still watching her. Tormund wiggled his eyebrows with another salacious grin. She looked away with a grimace and entered house, slamming the door shut.

* * *

"What's the problem of having rules?" Brienne questioned aloud. "It's not like I'm controlling or anything. I just prefer to have things to be done exactly right."

Once again, Brienne found herself in Margaery's apartment, but not as two friends having a chat. It was for one of her weekly therapy sessions where she was the patient and her friend became her psychiatrist. Brienne laid on the comfortable pale grey sofa in the living room. Her head rested on a cushion at one end, while her legs dangled off the other. Margaery, being ever the professional, sat in her large, black, well-supported designer chair behind her clear, glass desk.

"It's why I usually end up doing everything myself," Brienne continued. "Do you have any idea how difficult and complicated it is to coordinate forty tables at once? Logistics is half the battle. Can't master logistics? Forget cooking."

"Okay, we're going to trying something new this week," the psychiatrist said, clapping her hands together. "I'm going to ask you questions, and you're going to answer them."

Brienne rose up onto her elbows, and turned to look at the brunette over the back of the sofa. "Haven't we been doing that?"

"I've been asking you questions. You've been deflecting for the most part," the brunette noted.

The blonde woman laid back down with a sigh.

Margaery proceeded. "Now, how long ago was your last relationship?"

Brienne spluttered, sitting up on the couch. "What? Isn't that a bit personal?"

Margaery stared back, unblinking. "Well, this is therapy. How long?"

The chef frowned and flung her body back to a laying position. "I don't know. Three years ago. Maybe four. Or five..."

"Who ended it?"

"I did. He became too demanding."

"How so?"

"Well, if you must know, he proposed after a year," Brienne elaborated. "And before that, he wanted to move in together."

Margaery nodded noncommittally. "And what's so bad with either of those things?"

"We barely saw each other. I was busy at the restaurant. He was meeting with business clients all over the world,” Brienne explained. “He wanted a lady on his arm, a wife to come home to. I can never be a woman like that."

Brienne turned her head to one side and stared at the ticking clock on the wall. “It was over before it even started,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we meet Tormund (the TV version). I hope I wrote him somewhat well...
> 
> More to come.


	12. The Puppy That Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime hangs out with Tyrion and Bronn.
> 
> ****WARNING****  
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE because of Bronn. I apologize for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my word. This story has reached a dozen chapters already! I don't think I've ever written anything this long before, and I'm not even close to finishing.  
> I hope you guys are all still enjoying the ride. I greatly appreciate all the kudos and reading all the comments you guys leave. :)  
> Here's to the next dozen! (I think I'll probably get there at the rate I'm going...)

"So, when are you going to ask her out?" Tyrion casually asked. He lightly swirled the Dornish wine in his glass before taking a healthy gulp.

Jaime paused mid-sip and wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Ask who out?"

As per usual, Jaime invited himself over to Tyrion's bachelor pad after work on Sunday and arrived right after midnight. He was not surprised when he saw Bronn already sitting on the floor rug, one leg bent up and the other stretched out, with his back against the couch, sipping on a Valyrian beer. What started off as two brothers just hanging out, and checking up on each other, soon became a weekly practice with Bronn frequently showing up unannounced. The guy knew where the goods were, and was unapologetic about exploiting Tyrion's generosity, not that his little brother cared to begin with. The gathering also allowed Jaime to keep tabs on _Riverrun_ through Bronn's updates, which was a bonus.

Tyrion’s face showed a mixture of disbelief and amusement. ”You're not usually this dense brother. I’m talking about Chef Tarth, of course."

"What? Why would I ask her out?" Jaime quickly blurted out, close to choking on his beer.

Bronn snorted. "Because you've been mooning over the woman since you met her, and we’re fucking tired of hearing you talk about her like she shits rainbows.” He took sip of his beer before grabbing a handful of salted and toasted nuts from the plate on the coffee table.

“I wouldn’t put it quite as eloquently as that, but that’s the gist of it,” Tyrion agreed, pouring some more wine into his goblet.

“I don’t talk about her _that_ much…” Jaime denied, but stopped when he received identical looks from his two brother-in-arms. “Do I?”

Tyrion shook his head in mirth. “When even young Podrick notices your infatuation with his mentor, it means something.”

“It means you want to fuck her,” Bronn summarized whilst chewing on the cashews he had in his mouth. “I’d fuck her.”

Jaime choked on his beverage and shot him a dirty look, which Bronn shrugged off. “See, you definitely want to fuck her if you’re glaring at me over that.”

"I don't want to fuck her, she deserves better than that. I—"

Bronn groaned. "There you go again being all starry-eyed and shit." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's bad enough that you don't even have to do anything and flocks of chicks come flying over begging you to stick your golden fingers up their twats, but now watching you act like a fucking lovesick teenager is frankly irritating."

"You do realize I'm still your boss, right?"

The black-haired man with the newly-promoted head chef title snorted. "The way I see it, I only have one of the Lannister brothers as my boss. The other decided he wanted to be a puppy."

The elder Lannister brother silently begged his younger brother to back him up.

Bronn chortled, catching Jaime's plea for help. "See! You're even more of a puppy if you're asking your little brother to back you up. At least your not drooling after your sister anymore. I'd say that's a level up."

He drained the last drop of his Valyrian beer before standing up, patting his pockets for his phone, wallet and keys. "Well, I'm gonna head out. One of us still needs to work tomorrow to pay his rent. Not all of us shit gold like the two of you."

The two Lannisters shared looks of mock contempt at their foul-mouthed friend.

"Now listen," Bronn began in a serious manner, forcing their eyes to look back at him. He sounded like a parent lecturing their children.

"You," he said, pointing at Jaime. "Don't do anything stupid like getting yourself killed or some shit." Jaime scoffed in denial. "Oh, should we talk about your missing hand then?" he mocked, gaining an eye roll from his former head chef.

"And you," Bronn continued, turning his attention to Tyrion. "Don't let him do anything stupid. He's always been the dumbest Lannister."

This time Jaime complained in outrage to his brother, who just shrugged his shoulders and provided a look that said, _'Well, it's true.'_

"I'll try not to, but you know how difficult he makes it," Tyrion stated teasingly, making Jaime groan at the betrayal.

"That's the best we can hope for," he decided, striding to the door. "I'll see you two cunts later."

The two brothers shook their heads with silent laughter. They did not have the faintest clue on how they were _still_ friends with that foul-mouthed man, or how they became friends with him in the first place. At least Bronn told the truth, however harsh it may be, which they appreciated, especially considering the many fabricated relationships they have built up over the years due to their family name. Most people offered fake smiles and compliments in an attempt to enter the Lannister power circle. It was refreshing, albeit occasionally painful, to have someone bluntly tell you the honest to the Seven truth.

"Be honest with me brother," Tyrion asked, in a serious manner staring intently at Jaime. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" Jaime returned, grabbing a handful of nuts.

"Is all this," Tyrion gestured vaguely with his right hand. "Working at _Winterfell_ , obsessing over Brienne Tarth, is this all an attempt at getting back at Cersei, or are you genuinely interested in her?"

Jaime opened his mouth to speak, but Tyrion continued. "Because if this is about Cersei, I beg you to reconsider."

"It's not about... _her_ ," Jaime replied with a grimace, clearly avoiding the use of their step-sister's name. "That _situation_ ended the moment I found her in _my bed_ fucking Euron Greyjoy and berated me for losing my hand like I had a _choice_ in the matter. She didn't care about me. Not really. She cared only for herself," he sighed. "She fooled me more than anybody."

He immediately took a drink from his beer, as if the alcohol would clear the foul taste that talking about Cersei left in his mouth. He received a subtle shake of the head from Tyrion.

"She never fooled you. You always knew what she was, but you loved her anyway."

Jaime nodded sombrely and stared listlessly at the coffee table. He could not fault Tyrion. From the moment he met Cersei after their father's remarriage, he was enamoured by her like flies to honey. She was devastatingly beautiful and appeared to be attracted to him too. He followed her lead mindlessly, unconsciously allowing her to manipulate him into whatever she desired. He had been blinded by what he thought was love, especially when she said she loved him, but those declarations were fake. Everything was fake. She never cared for him one iota. She loved the power she had over him, and the feeling of a cock between her legs. It had taken the loss of his hand to open his eyes to the toxic affair, to Cersei's poison.

"So, Brienne Tarth," Tyrion began with a hint of amusement, trying to lighten the sudden somber mood that Cersei inflicted with just her name alone.

"I can see why you like her, especially after having first row seats to her reprimanding our _dear_ sister in front of the entire restaurant," he chuckled, watching as Jaime's eyes grew wide with awe. "I wish you were there to see it. It was glorious."

"I can imagine," Jaime stated, a dreamy expression appear on his face, which he did not realize he had on until it was pointed out to him. He schooled his features quickly, amusing Tyrion greatly.

"You have it bad," Tyrion laughed.

"Seeing Brienne makes me want to be a better man. She doesn't know it, but she's the one that pulled me out of that dark hole I was in. If it weren't for her, I'd still be moping about in my apartment." He ran a hand through his golden hair, recalling the grimy feel of his hair.

"She lectured me in the middle of the farmer's market after I bumped into her and she recognized me," he chuckled lightly.

Tyrion had never seen his brother in this state before. Jaime was not even in a relationship with Brienne, but he already sounded inspired and blissful, as though he was floating on a cloud in the sky. When he was with Cersei, he was tense, arrogant, and sometimes even cruel, though never at his little brother. Their step-sister brought out the worst in him.

"You're falling in love with her," Tyrion surmised.

"I am not," Jaime denied laughingly.

"No, you're right, you're not," Tyrion agreed, but continued seriously with a sympathetic smile. "You already fell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying on this journey with me.
> 
> More to come!


	13. The Favourite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne goes to the market.

Brienne jogged down the Red Road—an apt name for a road in the Red Keep district with red maple trees lining the road—towards the harbour. It felt strange to jog so late in the morning, but she overslept her alarm _again_ and needed her daily run to kick-start her brain. The dinner service last night was brutal and drained her. When she arrived home last night, she had raced up the stairs and launched herself onto her bed after taking off her jacket and shoes at the front door. She immediately fell asleep and was dead to the world. Now, the cool autumn air was a wake-up call. Unfortunately, it also meant that she had to encounter the mad rush of morning commuters and the gaggles of tiny humans going to school instead of the silence of sunrise.

With DragonPods in her ears playing her favourite podcast, _Breakfast with Jorah_ , she increased her pace as she neared the coastline. Reaching the dead end, where the road met the Red Keep Quay, she slowed her jog to an eventual stop, paused her podcast and took off her DragonPods. It was then she discovered another person next to her, breathing heavily.

"Fuck, Freckles," the man panted, "I've been calling your name for the past block and a half!"

 _'Of course, it's Jaime Lannister. Who else could it be?'_ she sighed to herself.

"Perhaps if you called me by my actual name, I would've responded," she retorted, checking her pulse.

"I did, after half a block, _Brienne_ ," he replied. “You jog here often? I haven’t seen you here before, and I follow this route every morning.”

“I started very late today,” she answered.

“Oh? What time do you usually run?”

“Quarter to six,” she replied bluntly, taking a sip of water from the small reusable bottle she carried at her hip. 

“Bloody hell, Freckles! You get up before the sun rises everyday and then work until midnight. Do you even have a life? That’s very diligent of you, really responsible for your well-being,” he mocked, as he snatched the bottle from her hand and took a quick sip.

“Piss off.” She glared at him before wrenching the water bottle back, wiping the mouth of it, and draining the rest of the water. She secured the bottle back on her hip. He smirked at her irritation.

"What do you want, Kingslayer?" Brienne exasperated with her hands on her hips.

"What did I tell you? My name is Jaime," he enunciated.

"Yes, and now you know how I feel when you call me 'Freckles'," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Well, how do you like, _Wench?_ ” he asked with amusement.

"My. Name. Is. Brienne. Not 'Wench'," she growled with emphasis. "What do you want? It's my day off.”

Jaime smiled and scratched the back of his head. His t-shirt rose up and Brienne caught a glimpse at his well-toned stomach, not that she was looking of course. She could not deny that the man was handsome, too disgustingly beautiful. Her cheeks, already kissed pink by her cardio-workout and the chill of the air, became a tad pinker. She looked away from him, trying to conceal her brief ogle with a look of annoyance. 

He shrugged, not noticing her brief inspection. “I saw you and I thought I’d say, ‘Hi.”

Brienne rolled her eyes and started walking in the direction of the farmers’ markets. He followed her, matching the large strides she was taking.

“Where are you going?” he pestered.

“Away from you,” she grumbled, increasing her speed.

“Aww…come on, Wench!”

“Oh for God’s sake!” she exclaimed. “My name is _Brienne_. What’s so difficult about calling me by my actual name?"

“It's a name of endearment,” he defended.

“How is being called a ‘wench’ an endearment?” she questioned with a look of disbelief.

He shrugged, exasperated. “I don’t know, it just is, Wench. Would you rather I call you ‘Big Brienne’?” 

She scowled at him. “No.”

“Then, ‘Wench’ it is,” he smugly declared. “You should really take that as a compliment. I only give nicknames to people I like. And I don’t like a lot of people. In fact, I think I can count them all on one hand. So you should be honoured.”

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” she exhaled. She marched to the produce tables, not giving him a chance to reply.

The air was as earthy as one can expect from a fruits and vegetable market. Several tents were assembled providing shade for the mounds of produce. Even though _Winterfell_ was closed on Mondays, she made it her mission to stop by the market everyday to get fresh produce for her own home kitchen, and get a hint on possible supplies arriving the following day.

"Good morning, Brienne!" One the vendors greeted in his typical friendly tone. The man reminded her of a shorter version of her father. "You're later than usual today. I thought I missed my favourite chef!"

"I'll always come to see you, Davos! You're the best part of my day," she replied with a smile and a wink.

Jaime caught up and stood just off to the side behind her. He was immediately caught off-guard by the playful teasing and smile she shared with this man. He had never witnessed a full smile from her since he started working in her kitchen. The simple action generated a gentle pink blush on her cheek, making her look more feminine, prettier even. To say he was mesmerized was an understatement.

"Aww, Brienne, you're making this old man blush!" Davos replied with a laugh. "Now, who is your best friend?"

"You didn't?!" Brienne exclaimed in shock. She had to reign herself in to avoid a squealing sound. "You got it?"

"I sure did!" Davos cheerily replied and pulled out a black, freezer box. He opened it revealing a clear, plastic Tupperware with something wrapped in a paper towel inside.

"May I?" she asked, gesturing at the container.

"Be my guest," he said, opening up the plastic container and holding it out to her.

The tall chef reached in and carefully retrieved the bundle. She held the little package gently in her left hand, and peeled back the paper towel revealing the legendary black truffle.

"Black truffle from Bear Island," Davos declared proudly.

Jaime's eyebrows rose high. Those truffles were expensive. It was rare and found only on Bear Island. It was harvested exclusively by the Mormont family, headed by Lyanna Mormont, who was notorious for being difficult to do business with. Even he, himself, never had the opportunity to cook with those truffles. The fact that this Davos person was able to acquire those black truffles was impressive. Jaime saw Brienne's eyes widen in complete awe.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, as if the Gods would take it away from her if she talked any louder. "Thank you Davos. How much do I owe you?"

"Nonsense! You don't owe me a thing. I'm glad to help my favourite chef," he warmly responded.

"At least come by the restaurant and let me cook for you on the house," Brienne offered, unable to take no for an answer.

"If you're sure," he conceded. "But I'll settle for a kiss," he added with a cheeky wink and grin.

"Davos!" she laughed and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Hey Wench! How come I've never gotten a kiss from you?" Jaime complained with an exaggerated pout.

 _'Gods, why does he have to look like a goddamn puppy,'_ Brienne thought. She rolled her eyes. "That's because you call me ' _wench'_."

"And who might this good-looking fella be, Brienne?" Davos questioned with a quirk of his eyebrow, and a tiny smirk on his face. "I've never seen you bring anyone here before."

"I didn't bring him here. He's been following me and won't leave me alone," she huffed, shooting a quick glare at her blond sous-chef.

Jaime grinned. "Jaime Lannister," he supplied, reaching his left hand out to shake the vendor's hand. “Pleasure to meet you."

"Ah, the Kingslayer. I know you. You're the owner of _Riverrun_ , right?"

Jaime nodded, overlooking the nickname. "Indeed I am, but I'm also working for her."

"Well then, you better take care of her! I won't let you hurt my favourite lass, alright?" Davos stressed, giving Jaime a stare-down. "If you do, you'll have to answer to _me_ , you hear?"

"Davos!" Two crimson spots appeared on Brienne's cheeks. "Don't threaten my sous-chef. You make it sound as though we're dating." Davos' brow arched with amusement. "Which we're not," she quickly added, faltering slightly. _'Why would a man like him want to be with someone like me, anyways?’_ Brienne thought.

Jaime felt his heart race a little when he heard her stumble over the words. _'Did she want...?'_ His mouth suddenly felt dry. He swallowed heavily, then exhaled deeply. He did not catch the knowing look that Davos threw at him, too busy watching his head chef's movements. Her large hands delicately lifted a black truffle to her nose. She inhaled deeply trying to categorize and memorize the pungent earthy scent of the fungus. He thought Brienne looked like a picture of innocence and perfection right at that moment. Her already astounding blue eyes were shining brightly as she sniffed the precious ingredient. _'Fuck, Tyrion was right. I am falling for her.'_

"I bet you'll make something spectacular with that," Jaime declared, having finally found his voice.

"You think so?" Brienne asked, looking at him skeptically.

He looked her right in the eyes, smiling softly. "Of course, you always do, and I only tell the truth."

She searched his eyes and found his smile to be genuine. Her eyes softened and she ducked her head a little, looking down at the ground; a sweet blush forming on her cheeks. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Davos. I personally wanted him to be the Hand of the King/Queen in the end. At least he's in the small council. The friendship he has with Brienne in this fic is inspired by the clip of Gwendoline Christie stroking Liam Cunningham's beard. It's so adorable! ♥  
> Another chapter done. Thanks for reading!  
> I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> More to come soon.


	14. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is more of a casual chapter. I have a checkpoint in mind, but the journey there is giving me some difficulty. =/  
> I hope you still enjoy it though!
> 
> P.S. I've snuck in a Gwen & Nik quote. Can you find it? ;)

Brienne's mood had greatly improved by the time she arrived home with the Bear Island truffles safely stored in the small cooler Davos lent her. To her surprise, Jaime had offered to walk her home, which she politely rejected. He looked almost disappointed. It was strange of him to offer when she knew he lived just around the block. Besides, by the time she bid farewell to Davos and finished the rest of her sweep of the market, the sun was high in the sky and lots of people were milling about. She did not need a man's protection, and she was more than capable of defending herself if any unsavoury situations did arise. Nevertheless, she could not lie and say she was not touched by his offer.

Marching straight to the kitchen, Brienne took out the tub of truffles from the cooler and set the container in the crisper area of her fridge, avoiding the damp, cooler parts. To say she was still flabbergasted by Davos' accomplishment was an understatement. _'The man must've been a smuggler in a previous life.'_ she surmised.

Once she was satisfied that the truffles were stored properly, she walked down the hall to the stairs. She looked to rectify the unpleasant smell of sweat with a shower. Upon approaching the stairs, she noticed the red flashing light from her answering machine sitting on the small table next to her staircase. She pressed a button to open her voicemail box.

 _"Hello my little sunshine! Your old man here."_ Her father's soothing baritone voice filled the room.

 _"I know you're probably at work right now, but I miss my little girl and I wanted to let you know I'll be coming to visit you on the first of October and staying for a few days. Don't worry, you don't need to take time off. I've been itching to explore King's Landing like I've always meant to anyways,"_ he laughed.

The last time her father was here in King's Landing, he ended up as the assistant maître-d at _Winterfell_ for the entire week he was here. Selwyn had just happened to be at the front of the house, when a party of four came in. Catelyn had been on the phone noting a reservation, so her father decided to take matters into his own hands, much to Catelyn's amusement. Between her own boss and her father, the ex-military general, the efficiency of the dining room service doubled that week.

 _"And you don't need to pick me up from the train station, Catelyn already offered, and wouldn't let me refuse. I owe her a lunch date._ "

" _Date_? Dad and Catelyn?" Brienne pondered aloud, blinking. "This day just keeps getting weirder and weirder…”

 _"Anyways, I'll see you soon! Love you my little sunshine!"_

A click sounded before the generic computerized voice stated, ' _end of messages'_. Brienne glanced over at her tabletop calendar, and discovered it was in two weeks time. She made a mental note to clean up the guest bedroom.

Dad and Catelyn. Those three words felt strange, but right in her mouth. She could somewhat envision the pairing in her mind. Both were widowed with children, and were kind, yet formidable human beings in their respective fields, commanding respect from those surrounding them. Now that she thought about it, her father had not introduced a new woman to her when she travelled to Tarth to visit him, which was strange. The past few times she visited, there was a different woman on his arm, who was often just a few years older than her. Brienne had become accustomed to her father, “the eternal playboy,” after she was made acquainted with the tenth girlfriend by the time she was twelve. The number must be in the thirties by now.

The connection was made easier since Catelyn already felt like a mother to her, having lost her mother when she was barely four. She had known Catelyn and the Stark family for so long—the coming spring marked fifteen years—that the Stark children treated her like their older sister. She has been to two culinary school graduations after attending three high school graduations; there were still three more high school graduations to attend for Arya, Bran and Rickon.

Catelyn and her late husband, Ned, were guest teachers for a week in one of her courses in culinary school. The couple showed remarkable skill in their demonstrations and held their temporary students to high standards; they did not suffer fools. However, unlike some of her other teachers, like Chef Roelle, they were patient, courteous and generous with their time to those who wanted to learn. Brienne was one of those individuals and frequently stayed behind after their lessons to ask questions. When it came time to find an internship, she applied and interviewed at _Winterfell_ and was immediately accepted. Her height and overall appearance probably left a lasting impression. Who ever forgot a giant? But the Starks had remembered her passion and dedication to the craft. She started her internship at _Winterfell_ , and never left.

 _Winterfell_ was her home.

* * *

“Chef Tarth introduces bits of black truffle in a luxuriously creamy mash that paired with a lightly steamed and magically silken halibut fillet and accompanied by the gorgeous melody that is her lemon-dill sauce,” Jaime read aloud from the King’s Landing Times during their pre-dinner service meal.

Jaime snickered. “You could’ve written this. Did you write this?” he asked Brienne, who sat across from him.

“It’s just fact,” she replied, without bothering to raise her head from the crossword puzzle she was working on.

Although the _Winterfell_ staff tuned out the general conversations between the two chefs as it became repetitive—Lannister would tease, and Tarth would ignore—they all kept an ear to the ground. Bets were taken, unbeknownst to the two chefs, on when Jaime Lannister would win over Brienne Tarth. Their sexual tension was glaringly apparent to everyone. Catelyn caught Gendry filling the books in the back alley one day, but ultimately turned a blind eye. She had an inkling that it would not be long, having seen Brienne blush a few times. Podrick’s bet for the end of the year was her guess as well, and she hoped he won the pot for the baby’s sake.

"This guy can't decide whether you're a chef or a painter." He giggled, not unlike a little boy. "Listen to this: The delicate brush of saffron-infused emulsion over the golden landscape of pearlescent scallops shows such artistry that..." he paused for dramatic effect, hoping to get a reaction from Brienne, but received none.

He continued with a twinkle in his eye."...it is no wonder she brought in an award-winning chef to complement her distinctive style."

Brienne's head immediately shot up with narrowed eyes. "It says that?"

"Just making sure you're paying attention," he answered with a cheeky grin, gaining the infamous eye roll from her as she returned to her puzzle.

"So, when did you say your nephew was coming by? Today, was it?" Catelyn inquired from his left. This caught Brienne's attention.

"Yeah, he should be here any minute now. Tyrion's picking him up."

Brienne placed her newspaper down on the table. "Wait, why wasn't I notified about this?"

"Sorry Brienne, it must have slipped my mind," Catelyn replied.

"Don't worry. It's just for tonight," Jaime stated. "It's one of those 'take your kids to work' things.”

“Then, why is your nephew coming here? Should he be going to work with his mother or father?” Brienne queried.

“Well, Cersei is out of the country doing the Seven knows what, and her husband is a rich drunk. I'm taking care of him and his sister. Usually, my brother would help out, but he has a flight to Braavos in a few hours. Besides, Tommen's been in my kitchen at _Riverrun_ plenty of times and causes no trouble. He's a sweet kid."

Brienne remained skeptical. "The restaurant kitchen is no place for a child."

"Tommen is the same age as Bran, and he's been in the kitchen many times," Catelyn reminded.

"Fine," Brienne sighed. There was no point in arguing something that was already decided. "Just make sure he—"

"Oh the Sevens!" Podrick shouted, fumbling his cellphone and almost knocking a glass of water onto Sansa. "The baby's coming! The baby's coming!"

A cacophony of noise arose from the table. Everyone exclaimed well-wishes and gave Pod hugs and pats on the back. Podrick's face revealed a mixture of shock, panic and excitement. He was still staring at the text message on his phone when Tyrion waddled in with Tommen.

“Mrs. Stark, Chef Tarth, Jaime,” he greeted with a nod individually. Tommen waved shyly at everyone.  
  
“Well, we seemed to have missed a major announcement, Tommen.”

“Mr. Lannister, Tyrion, sir, the baby’s coming,” Podrick spluttered to Tyrion with his eyes wide.

Tyrion chuckled. “Then what are you still doing here, boy?”

Tyrion shot an amused glance at Catelyn and Brienne for silent permission. They both nodded in understanding, tickled by their sous-chef’s bewildered expression.

“Come, I’ll have my driver take you to _The Citadel General_ on the way to the airport,” he declared, gently guiding Podrick to the door with his belongings.

“I’m having a baby…” Podrick repeated aloud to himself several times, as they left the restaurant and into the awaiting car.

Podrick’s announcement left a bubbling excitement over the staff that lingered throughout the rest of their meal. Guesses for the name and the baby’s sex were being thrown around, since Podrick had been tight-lipped about both. Sansa had immediately begun searching online on her phone for cute baby clothes to buy for the baby. Hot Pie suggested getting a baby chef outfit considering Pod was a chef. Everyone agreed.

Meanwhile, Jaime was quietly and intently observing Brienne’s emotional indecision with amusement. She was flitting back and forth between elation and mild trepidation for her sous-chef, who she thought of as a little brother. She blushed heavily when she noticed his gaze.

Catelyn took pity on the youngest Baratheon, having been thrown into a whirlwind of activity from the moment he arrived at the restaurant. The boy’s uncle was too preoccupied ogling her head chef to welcome his overwhelmed nephew. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

“Well, Tommen,” Catelyn smiled. “Welcome to the _Winterfell_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...there will be more to come, soon-ish.  
> Until then, thanks for reading!


	15. Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne interacts with Tommen.

Following the staff dinner, Jaime had officially introduced Tommen to Brienne as the rest of the staff prepped the kitchen for service. The boy had given her a timid smile, a quiet hello, and a gentle handshake, before following his uncle to his workbench. Tommen donned a black apron Jaime provided him with, and under his uncle's guidance, diligently helped clean and peel some root vegetables. The young Baratheon beamed when Jaime commended his work and gave him a pat on the shoulder. There were no complaints, no disturbance, nothing.

Brienne had been preparing for the worst if the elder members of the Lannister-Baratheon family were any indication; loss of limb, severe burns, and temper tantrums sparked by puberty were high on her list. Who knew what one can expect from a child whose family members consisted of a drunken ex-senator and the she-devil from the Seven Hells as parents, a business tyrant for a grandfather, an uncle who was a dwarf, and a second uncle who drove her absolutely insane. What she had not anticipated was the fact that Tommen Baratheon was the antithesis of Cersei. Brienne could not fathom how such a sweet, quiet boy with an angelic face came from such a crass human being. In a way, he reminded her of Podrick.

 _Winterfell_ appeared to be busier than usual. Tables were filled rapidly after service began, and more people were waiting at the entrance. If the kitchen wasn't chaotic enough, being without Podrick meant additional work for Jaime and herself. She was stressed and tired. Her mouth was dry and she kept wiping sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. She did not have the luxury to take a break, not even to step into the walk-in refrigerator for a quick cool-down. Brienne was grateful Jaime's nephew did not add fuel to the chaos. He was surprisingly helpful and efficient, and even asked to help. _'Jaime probably trained him,'_ she had thought. _'When did I start calling him Jaime?'_

She had just finished plating a crab salad and passed it to Sansa, when a pre-pubescent voice called for her. It startled her for a moment, unused to having a child in her kitchen.

"Chef Tarth, my uncle asked me to get you a cold bottle of water. He would like you to drink at least half the bottle now, so you don't get dehydrated and faint," Tommen said innocently, passing her a plastic bottle of water.

Brienne dazedly blinked as the bottle was placed in her hands. She stuttered out her gratitude, as Tommen returned to his station to peel some asparagus; she was completely caught off guard by the thoughtfulness. Her eyes softened as she looked towards Jaime. The blond man was moving back and forth between two skillets and three pots of dishes at various stages of completion. He turned around to grab a squeeze bottle filled with olive oil, when she caught his eye. Brienne held up the bottle of water, and mouthed, "thank you" with a tender smile and a faint nod. His eyes warmed and he reciprocated with a nod and a smile of his own, before returning to his pots and pans.

It was moments like that, ones of thoughtfulness, which forced her to view Jaime Lannister in a different light. Most of the time he acted like a child; he belted out eighties tunes in the kitchen, turned everything into a joke, and generally annoyed the shit out of her, especially with his idiotic nicknames. It was when those green eyes of his were sincere rather than mischievous, that she forgot she was a tall, beastly woman working beside a man who had a stupidly God-like appearance.

Brienne sighed as she touched the ice-cold water bottle to her cheeks, forehead and neck, before refreshing her mouth with a few healthy gulps from it. She felt drastically cooler and invigorated, and went straight back to the hustle and bustle. She didn't notice the pleased and hopeful gaze Jaime secretly sent her way.

* * *

The pace started to dwindle by nine pm. Brienne finally had a moment to herself, leaving Jaime to manage the kitchen for a few minutes; he had a break a bit earlier. She dragged her tired body to her office to check up on Tommen for Jaime. He had asked for her permission to allow Tommen to eat dinner and complete his homework in her office. She knocked on the open door to alert the boy of her presence. He raised his head from the book he was reading and smiled shyly.

"Hi Tommen," she greeted quietly from the doorway. "Do you mind if I join you for a bit?"

"Of course not, Chef Tarth," Tommen replied, rapidly moving his backpack off of the other chair for her to sit.

She thanked him and moved to sit; her body instantly praised her decision. "What are you reading?"

He looked surprised by her question, as if he hadn't expected her to start a conversation with him. He lifted up his book to show her the cover. "It's about cat nutrition. I want to learn how to make cat food for my kittens."

Brienne was touched by the boy's innocence. "Oh? How many kittens do you have?"

Tommen's face brightened instantly, delighted to share about his little feline friends. "I have three! Ser Pounce, Lady Whiskers, and Boots," he proudly proclaimed.

"That's nice. I've always wanted a cat, but my dad's allergic and once I became a chef, I didn't have time to care for one," she replied.

"You should come over and meet them! They're really friendly, especially Ser Pounce," he earnestly suggested.

"I would love to meet them," she answered. "But only if you're parents say it's okay."

"My brother, Joffrey, hates them. He once said he'll kill Ser Pounce and feed me his guts," Tommen said wistfully. "I'm glad he's gone away to college now."

Brienne had no idea how to respond to his statement, and chose to remain silent. Tommen returned to his literature, unperturbed by her lack of response. She wanted to hug the poor boy. He was just so sweet and innocent; his family didn’t deserve him.

“Chef Tarth,” he began.

“You may call me Brienne if you like.” _This kid is so polite._

“Okay,” he smiled before continuing soberly. “Brienne, is uncle Jaime doing okay?”

His sudden serious question stunned her. “He is working hard and he is very good at—“

“Oh no,” the boy interrupted shyly. “I mean, is he happy? After uncle Jaime lost his hand, he was really sad. He would smile and play with me when I visited him, but I could see he was upset. Uncle Tyrion said he stopped cooking and didn’t do anything for a while.”

Brienne recalled the time he had bumped into her at the market. He had looked like death warmed over. His lustrous golden hair had been long, dull and flat, and he had sported a scraggly beard. The clothes he had worn were shapeless and tattered. If it weren’t for his incredibly attractive and recognizable face beneath all the excessive hair, she would have thought he was a homeless man. She had no idea how he had suddenly went from that demoralized man to the talkative, luminous man she worked with within a span of a week. When she caught him singing _Bohemian Rhapsody_ in the kitchen the day she returned from Tarth, she had barely recognized him. The transformation had been drastic.

“Oh, well, I think he’s happy,” she responded. “Everyone here likes him, and he likes to make everyone laugh.”

“That’s good. Do you like him, Brienne?” he asked sincerely, his book laid in his lap forgotten. “Because he likes you very much.”

Brienne flushed at that. “I—he does?” she stammered out.

Tommen nodded elatedly. “Mhm! He talks about you all the time. Uncle Tyrion tells him to shut up sometimes,” he giggled.

She was stupefied. ‘ _Jaime’s been talking about me? To Tyrion and Tommen?’_

“What—um, what does he say about me?” she sheepishly asked.

The boy pondered for a moment. “He talks about your freckles. You do have a lot of freckles,” he stated. “Oh! He also talks about your eyes a lot too! Your eyes are very blue. He says they’re pretty.” He nodded vigorously.

If she thought her face couldn’t become any redder, she was wrong. Just as she was about to interrogate Tommen some more, said perfect male specimen knocked on the door. She tried with great difficulty to calm the redness on her face.

“Hey Wench, you coming back any time soon?” he asked nonchalantly. “I know Tommen is the best, but—“ His eyes narrowed exaggeratedly as he observed her face. “Have you been drinking? Your face’s all red.”

She glowered at him. “One, no, I have not been drinking. And two, my name is Brienne!”

The idiot just smirked at her in return.

Tommen looked at his uncle quizzically. “Uncle Jaime, why do you call her, ‘wench’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommen's a little sweetheart.  
> Brienne's starting to feel things?
> 
> Stay tuned! c:


	16. Operation Blue Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the long wait for this new chapter. I'm not going to lie, I had no idea what to do with this chapter, and it seemed too early to get to a plot point I have in-store for the future. I think this turned out relatively well though, and it's the longest chapter I've written to date.  
> Enjoy!

At a quarter to midnight, Tommen and Jaime arrived at his apartment. Jaime had coaxed Tommen from his nap in the family car after promising to make blueberry pancakes for breakfast in the morning. He would have carried the boy instead of disturbing his sleep, but the kid was becoming difficult to lift at age ten with or without one hand and his physical exhaustion from working an overloaded shift; the boy was growing like a weed. After wishing his driver, Peck, a safe journey home and a thanks for the ride, Jaime had ushered Tommen inside.

He had two of the bedrooms in his penthouse redesigned for his niece and younger nephew. It had become a common occurrence for them to live in his home, since their parents were rarely home. As much as Cersei said she loved her children and that they were her favourite things in the world, she regularly disappeared somewhere, leaving him with guardianship over her children. _'She's probably off fucking someone or something with a resemblance of a cock,'_ he thought bitterly, now that he recognized how blind he was to her extracurricular activities. Her husband, Robert, rarely saw the kids, and was married to her on paper only. He was too busy getting wasted and spending his fortune on whores.

Jaime didn't mind though. He loved his niece and nephews, and wished Tommen and Myrcella were his own children. Even Joffrey too when the boy wasn't being a little shithead, although he generally was and frequently terrorized his younger siblings when he was still living at home. Thankfully, Joffrey was an adult now and could be a terror elsewhere. That elsewhere being a college in the far reaches of Essos, if he hasn't dropped out and turned to drugs that is.

"Uncle Jaime, can Brienne come over sometime to meet Ser Pounce, Lady Whiskers and Boots?" Tommen asked, his green eyes peering at him half-closed from exhaustion.

"You'll have to ask her that, Bud," Jaime replied, lifting one of the kittens threatening to fall off of the edge of the bed and to the other pillow next to Tommen's head.

"She told me to ask mom or dad if it's okay, but they're never home," the boy said dubiously. "So can she? Brienne said she always wanted a cat, but her dad's allergic, and she became a chef, so she couldn't take care of one. I really want her to meet them."

Jaime pictured a little blue-eyed girl with boyish pale hair pleading for a kitty. The thought warmed his heart, and he smiled softly. "You leave it to me, okay?"

"Okay," Tommen mumbled sleepily. "I like her, Uncle Jaime."

"Me too, Bud. Me too." Jaime whispered, brushing a strand a hair from Tommen's face, who had drifted off to sleep.

Leaving the boy's room, he checked in on Myrcella, who was still up typing away on her laptop. Hopefully, it was her homework she was typing out and not a message to some hormonal boy. She was an intelligent girl, but he prayed to the Seven she had high standards and was cautious enough not to fall for pretty boys with flowery words. Myrcella smiled and promised she would go to bed soon after Jaime reminded her of the time. It was well past midnight now. He bid her a goodnight and sweet dreams, and left to prepare to go to sleep himself.

As he laid on his plush king-sized bed waiting for the sandman to arrive, Jaime's thoughts drifted to the blue-eyed chef, which was the norm these days. He could not let Tommen down. He will somehow manage to get Brienne Tarth to his penthouse to play with the kittens. His alarm was set for five a.m. having learned that the wench started her jog at a quarter to six in the morning. He would begin "Operation Blue Kitty", as he now dubbed the project, bright and early tomorrow.

* * *

_Operation Blue Kitty_ began after four hours of sleep and fifteen minutes of Jaime shuffling around in bed groaning in misery at the earlier hour. Boots came into his room by minute twelve of his fifteen minutes of snooze button time, and meowed at him after finding him still sleeping on his stomach with his head buried under his pillow. The kitten jumped onto the bed and gently pawed at his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him from his snooze. Soon, the other two kittens discovered Boots' location and joined the mission to wake up their owner's uncle. Jaime waved them off half-heartedly, whilst grumbling about annoying cats. As the volume of their mewling grew moderately louder, his eyes shot open. _'Cats. Wench. Operation Blue Kitty!'_ he remembered. "Fuck," he swore under his breath, as he scrambled out of bed frightening the three black kittens with his sudden brisk movements; Lady Whiskers was almost knocked off the bed. He gave a whispered apology to Lady Whiskers and carefully placed her in the centre of the bed to avoid another mishap. 

Within the next twenty-five minutes, he had brushed his teeth, eaten a banana, and had hastily donned on a clean hoodie and jogging pants, almost tripping himself in the process. After a brief stretch and a light warm-up involving burpees and jumping jacks, and asking the kittens to wish him luck, he left on his quest.

The streets were quiet, not eerily so, but a sense of tranquility; it was pleasant. Jaime now understood why the wench jogged so early in the morning. The air felt fresher in his lungs, the cooler temperature woke his senses, and he didn't have to avoid pedestrians, cars, and bicycles. He followed the Red Road towards Cobbler's Square, hoping per chance that the wench would amble down this route like the first time he had to caught her.

Half-way into his jog, a flash of blonde hair appeared in his line of vision. The wench was turning the corner to continue along the road perpendicular to the Red Road. There was no indication that she noticed him. _'Of course the wench would make me chase after her,'_ he sighed. He increased his pace to a sprint in pursuit. The gap between them narrowed, but her pace was fast and steady; his lungs started to burn in protest.

_Bloody hell._

Eventually, he matched her strides and jogged next to her; their steps were identical. He waited for her to acknowledge him, but the wench seemed to be in her own world with her DragonPods firmly in her ears and her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her face was slowly evolving into a strawberry; freckled and red. Tiny beads of sweat were forming at her temples and neck, which the indecent part of him wanted to lick. He shook his head to clear the thought.

Five minutes had passed and Brienne still had yet to address him. Jaime couldn't tell if she was either too absorbed in what was playing into her ears or was actively ignoring him. Taking matters into his own hands, he ran a bit faster to pass her. When he was confident that he wouldn't be bumping or tripping over anything, he turned around and started jogging backwards in front of her. He grinned at the eye-roll she immediately gave him.

"Morning Wench!" he cheerily greeted her.

Brienne slowed her pace to accommodate him and pulled the DragonPod from her right ear to hear him better. "My name is—"

Jaime cut her off. "Brienne. I know that, Wench.” He smirked when he received a huff in return.

"You know the nickname's growing on you. Don't lie to me," he teased.

"I don't want things growing on me," she replied, scrunching her nose with a minor frown, which he thought was actually quite adorable.

He laughed warmly. "Well, if it's any consolation, you're growing on me," he winked with a toothy grin.

He didn't think it was possible for the wench to become redder, but she exceeded his expectations yet again.

“What are you doing here? And stop running backwards, you look ridiculous.”

“Me? Looking ridiculous?” Jaime exclaimed in mock horror, touching his face in exaggerated motions as if his face transfigured into something horrific.

“Nah. I doubt that’s possible,” he denied jokingly, but turned back around to face the proper direction, and continued jogging beside her.

“Seriously, why are you up so early? Don’t you usually run later?” Brienne inquired.

“I wanted to see my favourite wench. I dreamed of you,” he replied with a shrug.

It wasn’t far from the truth. He did enjoy being around her whether it be in the kitchen or just keeping pace beside her on the pavement. Recently, the wench also invaded his dreams and was frequently the star of them; the dreams ranged from innocent and bizarre to downright filthy and borderline real.

Upon seeing her scandalized face, he reiterated by describing a dream he pretended to have had. “I was racing you down to the quay. The dream ended before I found out who won. Obviously, it would’ve been me—“

“Oh no, I would’ve won,” she argued, increasing her pace slightly. “Longer, stronger legs equal longer, faster strides, ergo, I’d win. I haven’t lost a race yet. No competition.”

“Ahh. But you wished someone could give you some competition, but none of them were strong enough,” he noted. “ _I’m strong enough._ ”

Brienne glanced at him for a moment, before sprinting off; her speed tripling in an instant. She threw him a little wink and a smirk over her shoulder.

_Cheeky wench._

He dashed after her with a beaming smile on his face.

The wench was fast, he had to give her that. Her strides were indeed long, and surprisingly light for such a large person. He could compare her to a gazelle—swift, agile, steadfast and graceful, dodging obstacles of fallen trash bags and ignorant pigeons. Even though she was winning— _because she cheated—_ he took pleasure in the fact that she was opening up to him a little by challenging him to a friendly race.

His executive chef was a minimum of fifty metres ahead of him; her pace unwavering. Near the end, he managed to close the gap a bit, but she still reached the dead end first. The smile on her face spoke volumes as she waited for him to reach her. They headed towards the early morning farmers’ market, once they caught their breaths.

“I told you I’d win,” Brienne triumphantly declared, taking a long drink from her water bottle before passing it to him.

He grabbed the bottle and drained the rest of the water. “You cheated and got a head-start. I didn’t even know we were racing until you winked at me,” he complained, giving her the empty bottle.

“You’re just a sore loser,” she replied, securing the water bottle back on her hip.

“I demand a rematch, Wench,” he shot back, not in the least upset. “I was unprepared and you cheated. I bet I’d beat you next time.”

“Sure you will,” she jested, biting her lower lip in amusement. “You keep thinking that when you’re eating my dust next time.”

Jaime shook his head in mirth. He liked the shape of this banter they were having. Usually, he would tease her and make jokes around her, and she would responded back in a serious fashion or ignore him completely. Now, she was throwing back quips of her own and smiling that beautiful, toothy smile of hers. She even _winked_ at him. _Winked_.

He was loving every minute of it.

The pair of chefs wandered through the market with Brienne stopping at various stalls to greet her usual suppliers. Jaime had purchased some beautiful blueberries, after remembering his promise to Tommen of blueberry pancakes. Davos cheerily welcomed them to his booth, and gave a brief show-and-tell on some beautiful mushrooms that he just harvested. After a bit of discussion between the two chefs, they both agreed that the mushrooms would be a great addition to the menu, and Brienne placed the order to be delivered to _Winterfell_ in the afternoon. By seven-fifteen, they had rounded the entire market and were preparing to head back to their respective homes.

“Wench, you hungry?” Jaime asked. “I’m making blueberry pancakes for the kids this morning. You can come over if you want.”

“Brienne. And it’s okay. I don’t want to intrude,” Brienne declined graciously.

“You won’t be intruding, I’m inviting you over. You’ll be getting free world-famous blueberry pancakes made by me, and you get to meet Tommen’s cats like he wanted. It’s a win-win situation, Wench.”

“I smell terrible and need to shower,” she lightly protested. “Plus, your niece hasn’t met me. I don’t think I should meet her looking and smelling so terrible.”

“Alright, I raise you two showers at my place for you to choose from with spare clothes for you to change into, lots of blueberry pancakes, and the chance to play with three adorable kittens for hours until we need to head to _Winterfell_ ,” Jaime countered. “And Myrcella wouldn’t care. She’ll probably even love that she has another person to chat to before school.”

Brienne frowned. “I…” she trailed off.

“I’m legitimately offering free food, a free shower, and the chance to play with kittens. Just say, ‘yes’, Wench.”

She sighed, unable to think of a counterpoint. “Fine. Yes. I’ll come over.”

Jaime mentally fist pumped.

_Operation Blue Kitty is a go!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I would love to hear what you guys think.
> 
> More to come, soon-ish.


End file.
